


Catch Me If You Can

by LWTIS



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Bounty Hunter Kyle, Cyborg Kenny, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, M/M, Mutual Pining, South Park: Phone Destroyer - Freeform, k2challenge18, lobster children, this town aint big enough for the both of us and our friend circles are ridicilously similar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LWTIS/pseuds/LWTIS
Summary: When Kyle set out to round up an elusive cyborg fugitive, he expected a straightforward job - a criminal bought to justice, followed by an easy reward. Instead, he finds himself in a whirlwind hunt across the city, chasing after the most confusing and infuriating individual he's had the misfortune of meeting.(What kind of cyborg was called Kenny anyways?)Written for townycod13's K2Challenge18 //Prompt: Cyborg/Bounty Hunter//





	1. Fugitive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Townycod13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Townycod13/gifts).



“Here’s your next target.”

Kyle drops his gaze just in time to witness Cartman slamming the poster down onto his desk, making the empty glasses rattle.

Not for the first time, the he reflects on how the Sheriff _could_ have just used the _perfectly functional_ tablet, easily within reach, to show him the bail piece. Instead of, you know, constructing a physical printed poster, no doubt breaking about four environmental laws with the tree consumption alone. But of course, _that_ wouldn’t be half as dramatic.  
Swallowing his comment, he leans forward to inspect Cartman’s latest masterpiece. The words ‘WANTED’ are spelled across the top of the page in old western style copperplate, matching the bold figures of the bounty at the bottom. A blurry, blown-up photograph completes the piece, no doubt taken from a security feed. The grainy image depicts a tall young man, frozen mid-jump in between two buildings. He’s wearing ill-fitting clothes, including a hood that obscures most of his features, save for a glimpse of his eyes and -  

“... a cyborg?”

“Good observation, Kahl!” the other man croons, butchering his name with practised ease as he sits down heavily. Once again, Kyle idly wonders what sort of alloy his chair is reinforced with to be able to withstand such abuse on a daily basis. “A very slippery, fast, _unregistered_ cyborg, in fact.”  

The redhead acknowledges this with a hum, gaze returning to the photo. Carefully, he takes in the metallic surface of his exposed arm, the twisted cables peeking out at his elbow, the sharp edges of his crafted fingers. For someone who just leapt off a frighteningly tall building, there's no trace of panic in his movements.  
This was not an amateur at work.    

“What has he done?”

“Been breaking my balls is what he’s done.” comes the grumbled reply. “Vandalism. Theft. Injured a few dozen guards. Thinks because he’s faster than the average cop means he’s allowed to do as he pleases.”

Kyle’s lips curl in distaste. Exactly the kind of attitude that he despised the most. Now determined, he swipes the poster off the desk, tucking it away safely in his pocket.

“What do you have on him? A name, an address?”

“No name. I’ve an address where he’s been spotted at stupid hours of the morning a few times - might be useful.” Cartman reaches over, swiping a finger over his tablet. A quiet chirp signals the information transfer complete. “Oh, and he wears a lot of orange.”

Kyle feels his eye twitch. Cartman’s priorities during briefings were always frustratingly misplaced. “...okay?”

“I know, right?” the Sheriff snorts, rolling his eyes. “What kind of idiot would willingly wear that much orange?”

A cold silence fills the office.

Kyle lets it stretch long enough to make the other’s expression to crack into discomfort before reaching for his helmet, turning to leave with a dismissive sweep of his long, orange cape.

“I’ll bring him in by the end of the week.”

\---

Much to his surprise, he doesn’t have to search very long.

Cartman’s information leads him to the lower levels of the city, far away from the sharp scents and bustling crowds of the city centre. A small pocket of civilisation tucked between the planet's central and the vast, still-untamed wildlands. Just an elevator ride away, the bright lights are replaced by permanent shadows and dirty corners. The gloom is occasionally interrupted by crackling neon and cigarette flares, smoke and steam constantly swirling near the ceiling. There is no space wasted, every gap between buildings filled with portable cabins tacked together to form makeshift apartments. At the centre of it all is a sprawling bar, bearing the name of an ancient god, offering drinks, dancers and agents of the most lucrative black market in the quadrant.

Amidst the residents, barely anyone spares Kyle’s attire a second glance, even with his bulky clothes and imposing helmet covering his face. Still, he doesn't want to risk attracting too much attention.

The rooftops are uneven under the thick soles of his boots, creaking alarmingly with every step. Eventually, he finds a good lookout spot overlooking the main entrance. Ensuring he is out of sight, he crouches to sit, loosening his weapon from its holster. A quick glance confirms it’s set to stun.   

And now came the boring part.

As a profession, bounty hunting was still surrounded by a lot of romanticism and intrigue. Most people thought the job was dominated by breathtaking chases, combat and dramatic arrests. In reality, most of his time was spent cooped up in various modes of transport or in hidden little corners, waiting.

Stan’s numerous messages are stacked across his screen when he switches on his communications device, eager and excited. He had sent through the schedule for his latest arena duel, as well as about seven attachments leading to a jewellery website. Kyle suspects they link to terribly overpriced, gorgeous engagement rings.  
As much as Stan’s beloved deserved a stunning ring, this was getting ridiculous. He was going to need to stage an intervention before his best friend blew his life savings on crystals mined from ice-encrusted planets on the other side of the galaxy.

There’s also an unread message from his mother. Briefly, he wonders how she would react if she knew exactly where her eldest son was. The mental image is unshakeable, a little amusing and wholly terrifying. It keeps him company the whole time he types his reply - yes, he's well, lunch sounded great next week, and no, he really doesn't want the number of Mrs. Kosta’s really nice son.

He’s halfway through Ike's latest essay draft when motions claim his attention from below. A tall figure is approaching the area, whistles muffled behind a thick hood, hands buried deep in the pockets of his ratty coat.

His orange coat.

Cautiously, he leans forwards, fingers sliding into the grip of his gun with practised ease. His eyes follow the newcomer as he gets closer, pausing in his step when an elder man leans out of an opened window.

“Heyah, Kenny! You're back late.”

There's a chuckle in response, voice softer than he would have guessed. A gloved hand moves to pluck at the material covering his mouth, revealing a wide smile.   

“Someone’s cruiser broke down during my last hour and they were practically in tears at the thought of not getting home in time for their daughter's birthday. Can't really turn them away, can you?”

The elder man laughs, offering the other some kind words and a friendly squeeze to the shoulder before ducking back inside his home. Kyle watches the exchange in silence, eyes narrowed in concentration. The young man moves to zip his hood back up, the low light catching on the metallic embellishments along his jaw when he turns his head. There’s a hole in his glove, revealing the tip of a gunmetal thumb.  

Target confirmed.

Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself to his feet as soon as the other is out of earshot, creeping to the edge of the roof. He reholsters his weapon before letting his body tip forwards, mask muffling his grunt as his boots hit the ground.

_Kenny is a strange name for a cyborg._

Said cyborg finally stops in front of a portable unit - a particularly small and battered cabin. The redhead deems the time ready to make his entrance. He strides forwards, closing the distance between them in a dozen confident steps.

“Excuse me.”

His target goes perfectly still. Kyle thinks he sees his fingers clench into fists before the fugitive turns around to face him.

Blue.  
Cornflower blue.

A memory flashes through him with unexpected clarity - of Ike's hand in his own, noses pressed up against the glass, the giddy excitement as they took in the exhibition of Earth fauna. Spiky leaves, fragile petals - so strikingly different to the plants they grew up around. And the tiny, bright blue cornflowers were his absolute favourite.

There's a pause as the cyborg cocks his head to the side, gaze calculating. Then, to his shock, he waves a hand, thick hood doing nothing to disguise the cheer in his voice.  

“Can I help you, sir?”

In that moment, he is extremely grateful for the thick tinted material of his helmet.

“I’m from the Hunter Union.” he says, reciting mostly on autopilot. He raises a hand to display his permit. “You have a bounty on your head, issued by Sheriff Cartman. Please allow me to escort you to the authorities.”

Kenny considers his words, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. His cheerful demeanor remains frustratingly unchanged.

“Is that right?” he muses aloud, having the gall to look surprised. “I think you've got the wrong guy, Agent. Sorry you came all this way.”

Behind the helmet, Kyle’s eye twitches.

“Kenny.” he says, relishing the shock flashing through the blonde’s expression, breaking his composure for a precious moment. “This is your last warning. Come with me, and face the charges for your crimes.”

Something blazes across the taller boy’s eyes at that - something sharp, dark, _furious_. It only lasts for a split second, but it’s enough to raise the hairs on the back of Kyle’s neck, leaving him itching to make a grab for his gun.

“Sorry, Agent.” Kenny replies slowly, voice somber. “Maybe another time.”

And with that, he turns and breaks into a sprint.   

As he vaults over the carcass of a long-discarded shuttle, Kyle resists the urge to waste precious seconds with rolling his eyes.  
Why did they _always_ run?  
Whatever. He had his chance.

Swiftly, he reaches for the switch. Underneath the folds of the cape, the thrusters roar to life, fire sweeping along the ground as he rises up into the air.    
He closes the distance between them easily. With a sharp twist, he cuts a perfect, sweeping arch mid-air, bringing him face-to-face with the fleeing cyborg. He catches Kenny’s shocked expression in the second before the redhead’s shot hits him square in the chest.

\---

“This is ‘Wrath of the Skies’, to Kupa Keep, seeking permission to land. Requesting prisoner detainment crew. Over.”

With a sigh, he ends the broadcast. Leaning back in the pilot seat, he allows himself a moment of satisfaction - even with his most optimistic expectations, this job was incredibly quick to complete. He rarely closed in on targets this quickly, especially when boasting cybernetic enhancements.  
The man in question is cooped up in the containment unit at the back of his shuttle, handcuffed and slumped on the floor. He hasn’t stirred throughout the entire journey. The continued silence had made the redhead just a little paranoid, prompting him to switch to autopilot several times just to make sure he was still breathing.  
His dashboard pings with an incoming transmission, microphone crackling pitifully.

“Name and business.” a bored voice drones, not even bothering with the protocol lingo.

“Agent Broflovski. I’ve bought in Sheriff Cartman’s cyborg fugitive. _Over_.”

“Proceed to the landing zone.”

 

The Sheriff’s office was, frankly, unnecessarily big. In Kyle's humble opinion, the governor of their modest, mostly-peaceful district didn't need a building of near-skyscraper height with two dozen prison cells. Or three conference rooms. Or a giant statue.   
In idle moments spent outside of Cartman's office, delayed for the other's entertainment, he wonders just where exactly they found the funding for all this.

The landing zone is stretched across the roof, half of the spaces already occupied. The redhead’s preferred spot in the corner, however, is still free. Idly, he thinks about dinner as he kills the engine. He leaves the heavy helmet and the jetpack on the passenger seat.  
The pair of guards that meet him outside look tired and ready for death. One wordlessly holds out his hand, grunting when Kyle drops the keys to the containment unit and Kenny’s handcuffs in his palm.  
He can't exactly blame them. He'd be in worse shape if he had to work directly under Cartman every day.  
He is just signing the last form when a familiar drawl makes its appearance.

“Back again so soon, Kahl?”

Behind him, ever-present enforcer Jimmy gives Kyle a smile, wordlessly mouthing a greeting. The hunter takes his time returning it before turning his attention to the Sheriff.

“I got your cyborg.” he replies with no small amount of pride, gesturing towards his ship. Cartman's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.

“So soon?” he exclaims, shaking his head. “Damn. That's amazing. You _really_ have no life whatsoever.”

Rolling his eyes, Kyle opens his mouth to snipe back, just as a scream cuts through the air.

He whirls around just in time to witness the two guards falling to the ground, clutching their faces in agony. There’s a flash of orange and silver, and suddenly Kenny is balancing on top of his ship. His hood has slipped back during the tussle, revealing a shock of messy blonde hair and a devilishly determined expression. His brows knit together in effort before he wretches his arms apart, snapping the handcuffs in two.  

Kyle’s frozen. His feet are rooted to the ground, body paralysed to every instruction his brain demands with ever-growing urgency.  
Next to him, Cartman is yelling orders to open fire, to fetch more guards, _to do something_ .  
Amongst the shouting for backup and growing mayhem, Kenny catches his gaze.

With seemingly little effort, he evades the shots aimed his way. One bullet grazes his shoulder, only to ricochet off sharply to the side. Within a blink of an eye, he's standing on the edge of the roof. Behind him, one misstep away, shuttles speed by, completely unaware.  
Blood drips down his cheek, strikingly scarlet. With his hood torn and cybernetics on display, he is a stunning, terrifying, inhumane sight.  
Gaze still fixed on Kyle, he raises his hand in a mock salute. His blue eyes are electric and _ablaze_.

“Another time, Agent Broflovski!”

And with that, he falls back, tumbling off the roof and out of sight.

Kyle’s palms are hitting the edge of the roof before he knows it. He heaves himself up high enough to peer over the edge, the icy fist of dread tight around his throat.  
There's no corpse in sight. No blood, no screams, no gathering crowd.  
His gaze darts around frantically until the sound of frantic horns catches his ear. He turns towards the source just in time to catch a large cargo carrier correct its flight track, driver leaning heavily on the horn.  And on the right wing, unbeknownst to them, clings their runaway cyborg.  
Cruisers soon swerve behind them, blocking the blonde out of sight. Before his eyes, his target is swept away into the rush hour traffic.

Idly, the pain registers from his fingers. A glance down reveals white knuckles, skin broken on fingertips from gripping the roof edge much too hard.  
It’s still a struggle to take a breath. But instead of icy dread, the grip around his throat is scalding, molten hot fury rising in his throat like bile.

That fucking piece of shit _asshole_ .  
How fucking _dare he_.

A blisteringly loud curse, spat right next to his ear, snaps him back to reality.

“What the hell was that, Kahl? Did you slap the fuzzy handcuffs you use in the bedroom on him by mistake?” Cartman seethes, waving a furiously clenched fist in his direction. "What sort of idiot doesn’t check that - “

His words come to a prompt halt when the redhead whirls around to face him, eyes narrow slits of cold fury.

“I said I would bring him in by the end of the week, did I not?” he hisses, tone pure venom. “Check your calendar. It’s fucking Monday, Cartman.”

He stomps past him, snatching his abandoned keys from the ground. The tablet with the release form had been dropped next to them, cracked screen flickering mockingly at him.  
When he glances over his shoulder, his expression is one of determination.

“I’ll bring him in by the end of the week.”

 

\--

 

AN:

An entry written for [townycod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Townycod13/pseuds/Townycod13)'s [K2 Challenge](http://townycod13.tumblr.com/post/174491471828/k2-fic-challenge)! I saw the Cyborg/Bounty Hunter prompt, and my weak ass was gone - the sci-fi deck (as well as the sci-fi genre) is my absolute favourite. Thank you so much for all the amazing writing and wonderful art you do, Towny! You truly are a blessing to those who like their orange boys <3  

EDIT: PLEASE CHECK OUT THIS AMAZING ART BY TOWNY, I ADORE IT SO. SO MUCH:

[Kenny's Wanted Poster + Kyle Is Done With People Who Run](http://townycod13.tumblr.com/post/174690785663/catch-me-if-you-can-by-lwtis-i-may-end-up)

[Kenny's Breaking Free](http://townycod13.tumblr.com/post/174691445383/more-doodles-inspired-by-catch-me-if-you-can-3)

For those who are not still low-key addicted to Phone Destroyer: [Cyborg Kenny](http://southparkphonedestroyer.wikia.com/wiki/Cyborg_Kenny) and [Bounty Hunter Kyle](http://southparkphonedestroyer.wikia.com/wiki/Bounty_Hunter_Kyle) ! And [Sheriff Cartman](http://southparkphonedestroyer.wikia.com/wiki/Sheriff_Cartman) (a slight cheat on my part, but it made more sense narratively then Awesome-O).   
Setting-wise, I mostly had [Kadara](https://www.artstation.com/artwork/9rO5N) in mind from Mass Effect: Andromeda, especially for the [lower levels](http://cyberclays.tumblr.com/post/159913915999/mass-effect-andromeda-concepts-by-ken). 

I hope you enjoy - any comments are very much appreciated <3


	2. Quite the little escapologist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relentless chase for Kenny the Asshole Cyborg continues.

Kyle is not having a good week.

It is already Wednesday, and all he has to show for the past three days is a growing number of failures.  
Frustrating failures.  
He is no closer to figuring out the fugitive’s surname or his new hideout. Throughout their numerous encounters, he couldn't get so much as a clear snapshot of the blonde’s face, let alone a DNA sample.

What made it even more annoying is that it wasn’t locating Kenny that was proving to be difficult.  
It was _everything_ _else_.

 ---

 _The terrible clangs echo down the alleyway as Kenny throws himself from one container to another, feet leaving dents in the metal after each leap. Above him, Kyle flies in close pursuit._  
_So close. There were nothing but cramped alleyways for miles now. In such close quarters, he couldn't keep avoiding his shots forever._  
_As if hearing his thoughts, the blonde makes a sharp turn right. Giving the thrusters a vicious boost of extra power, Kyle swerves to follow.  
He realises his mistake about the same time that the edges of his jetpack get caught in the narrowing walls in a shower of sparks, bringing him to an abrupt halt. _

_Wincing at the horrendous screech from the unexpected friction, he shifts, trying to dislodge himself. None of his attempts - not a kick to the wall, nor the straining thrusters - are successful.  
Below him, the calculating asshole turns to give him a wave. _

_“Hang in there, Agent!” he croons right before leaping up a nearby ladder, scurrying up towards the rooftops and his means of an escape._

_With gritted teeth, Kyle empties his entire magazine in the cyborg’s direction, fingers still jamming the trigger long after it stops firing. All that it results in is some delighted laughter and a trashed fire escape that no doubt will be coming out of his paycheck._  
_And he was still stuck.  
With a dejected sigh, he reaches to knock on the nearest window, managing to tug his mask off by the time the curtains lift, revealing the owner. _

_“....I am not interested in the teachings of any of your deities.” she says in carefully polite tones, apprehension evident in all six of her eyes.  
_

_“No, I'm not - I am terribly, terribly sorry, m’am, but...I’m stuck. May I please use your window?”_

 ---

He had never hated the underbelly of the city more - with its infinite amount of trap doors, back doors, sliding doors, _way too many fucking doors._ Years of experience, dozens of contacts and endless hours of research, and yet he kept coming up short - over and over again.

 _“I think you need to step back just a little bit, Kyle.”_ came Stan’s entirely predictable advice, voice just a little distorted through the transmission. _“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you sound about two steps away from having his wanted poster tacked onto your ceiling so you can glare at it first thing in the morning.”_

The redhead snorts. “Well, I gotta throw my knives at something, don’t I?”

A pause.

_“...dude, do you have a poster tacked up in your apartment somewhere?”_

“Of course not!”

_“I’m coming over tomorrow and checking for myself.”_

It wasn’t about the money, or even about the promise he made to the Sheriff - a promise Cartman was all too happy to keep reminding Kyle about, both in person and through every means of electronic communication.  
This was about his professional integrity. His abilities.  
This was getting _humiliating._  

 ---

_It’s been five hours._

_Five hours of squatting by the sole exit of the building Kenny had entered in the morning._

_Five hours with just one bottle of water and crackers whose expiry dates he’d been too afraid to check before cramming them into his mouth._

_Five hours with fluctuating winds and the occasional spout of corrosive rain._

_Gritting his teeth, he shifts his weight for the dozenth time. He stopped feeling his toes about two hours in. The door jingles open, revealing a tall blonde bombshell. Both her hands and her attention are focused solely on her communicator, thumbs practically a blur as she types. The lower half of her face is hidden by a high collar, fashionable with the ladies of the Sanseyol cluster._  
_Quashing down his disappointment, he lets her pass, trying his best to catch a glimpse of the reception before the doors slide shut behind her. There’s no sign of anyone hiding, cowering, waiting._  
_The sound of her footsteps almost fade when Kyle turns to stare after her, niggling doubt soon growing into genuine dread._

_Kenny had broken into a sprint by the time he’d staggered to his feet. She - he - drops to his knees by a corner, fingers finding a hidden latch for a narrow entrance down to the sewers. As he gets closer, he can see the places where the long blonde wig has slipped in his hurry. His eyes crinkle as their gazes lock together, the collar no doubt hiding a shit-eating grin. His hand raises in their customary wave before he thinks better, blowing Kyle a fucking kiss before jumping down into the depths._

 ---

The redhead glances over at the clock, noting the numbers with a tired sort of surprise. Midnight has passed a lot sooner than he anticipated.

 _“You need to go to bed, man.”_ Stan had said just before they said goodbye an hour ago, tone gentle but leaving no space for disagreement. “ _This can wait till the morning. You've got better things to do than lose sleep over one asshole target.”_

_Surely you’ve got better things to do at this time of the night._

Kyle let his gaze linger around his apartment - with its bare walls, minimal furniture, every surface covered in papers, books, haphazardly piled folders. On his bed, messy and much too empty, with the old faded quilt Sheila had sewn him  dangling off the side.  
He wasn’t so sure he did.

\---

In theory, accepting a quick, _straightforward_ job as a palette cleanser had been a good idea. He’d spend a few hours working for someone who was not Cartman, clear his head, get a boost of self assurance that he could still do his job and do it well, dammit.  
In practice, his mind remained stubbornly fixated on the Case of Kenny The Asshole Cyborg.  
Consequently, in the process of detaining his runaway, he missed a few small cues. And a couple of big ones.  
He got slammed into a solid concrete wall with full force for his troubles.  
He manages to keep a straight face as he snaps the handcuffs on, boot digging gratifyingly into the culprit’s spine. He keeps it professional when handing him over to the authorities, papers signed, bounty and pleasantries exchanged. Once in the safety of his ship, doors sealed and windows tinted, he curls up in the driver's seat for a long ten minutes, holding back tears. His ribs protest with every shaky breath taken. A quick peek under his armour reveals a long, ugly splotch of purple, bleeding down his side.

There was no avoiding it - it was time for yet _another_ detour.

The shadows are already long and red-tinted when Kyle maneuvers his ship down to the landing area, blissfully abandoned. The gravel crunches under his boots as he makes his way up the well-worn path, edged with a cheerful little fence. Some kind stranger has even left a sign on one post, in a clumsily welded shape of an arrow.    
The _Paladin_ was tucked away between two mountains, a stone's throw away from the border between city and wildlands. An open secret with its modest sandstone walls and arched doorway, it was a haven for any and every injured soul that needed medical attention. No matter the species, faction or occupation. Or insurance - and lack thereof.     
Kyle counted himself lucky that he wasn’t in the latter category. He did hold the clinic in high esteem regardless - and, thanks to certain circumstances, he was always on the priority list whenever he made a visit.    
The happy sound of the bell tingles through the room as Kyle shuffles in, prompting the appearance of a familiar, tiny receptionist. He manages a smile for Dougie whilst he fills in the visitor’s form, grateful at the lack of questions. As he disappears to fetch the doctor, Kyle slumps down on the plastic orange chair.  
With a bleary blink, he tips his head back. In his line of sight is a large notice board, sporting the house rules at the very top. Each point is neatly illustrated. Carefully tacked underneath is at least two dozen crayon drawings, penned by eager little hands - the doctor’s grateful past patients.  

Right on cue, the man in questions appears, breezing through the door in a sweep of crisp white robes and concerned tones.

“Kyle!”

“Hey Butters.”

“What happened?” the blonde asks, eyes already fretful as he hurriedly takes inventory of the hunter’s appearance.

“Got a bit roughed up on the job. Might have cracked a few ribs.” he replies, trying to keep his voice as level as he can. “I know it’s not ideal but...I need to be back on the job tomorrow morning. No delays.”

And Butters, dear sweet Butters, despite the unhappy twitch of his lip and his very clear opinions on letting the body rest to heal itself, nods straight away.  

“Come on, let’s get you patched up!”

\---

After much prodding, muttering and an unholy amount of (extremely cold) medigel later, Kyle feels somewhat like a human being once more. With the pain eased to a dull throb, he is happy to sit back and let Butters flit around him.

“There we are.” he finally announces, clapping his hands together. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the scans of Kyle’s ribs from his handheld device to the projector screen fixed on the wall. “Just sit tight for a little more. I got most of the fractures healin’ up. I’ll get you some ointment to put on before you go to bed, and you’ll be as right as rain by tomorrow.”

“You are a lifesaver, Butters.”

“Aw, gee - just doing my job.” the other insists, lips pulled into a pleased little smile. “You came at a perfect time! I’ve only got one other patient in right now. Ah - speaking of, do you mind if I go check up on him now? I’ll just run a quick adjustment on his cybernetics whilst your medigel gets all absorbed.”

“Sure, of course. Go ahead.”

He waits until the blonde is out of sight before pushing himself to his feet. Carefully, he tests his range of movements, lifting his arm and rotating his torso, miming the action of drawing his gun. Minor discomfort and the occasional twinge aside, his movements are smooth.  
The fugitive stood no chance the next time they crossed paths.

Muted voices and approaching footsteps prompt him to sit back down, assuming his previous position of a model patient. He hears Butters laugh as they turn the corner, the stranger’s shoes unusually loud against the floor.

“ - and it’s all been fine? No feedback problems, no strained shoulders?”

“It’s been great, Leo.” the other patient replies, voice warm. “Per usual.”

 _Wait a fucking minute.  
_ It cannot be.

Kyle hasn’t given religion much thought in the past decade. But in that moment, he wants to curse all and every deity out because this feels cruel and _deliberate_. All gods are fucking assholes and karma is a myth because this city cannot be _this fucking small_ that he is - once again - staring into the cornflower blue eyes of Asshole Cyborg Kenny.

He is back on his feet within seconds, a snarl ripping from his lips.

_“You!!”_

The shock on the fugitive’s face fills him with giddy satisfaction for a precious three seconds. It’s then promptly ruined by an all-too-familiar grin.

“We meet _again!_ ” he responds, voice bright with false cheer. He casually steps to the side, angling his right arm away from Kyle’s line of sight. “This is starting to get just a little sad, Agent Broflovski.”

He was going to murder him, bounty be damned.

“Oh.” Butters exclaims, voice very quiet. “You know each other.”

“A little too well, I feel.” Kenny quips, expression twisting with exaggerated pity. “He’s been very clingy.”  

That mocking tone was the last fucking straw.

“Bold words coming from someone who has to hide in the sewers from the law and justice.” he hisses. Kenny’s smile stiffens, eyes narrowing.  

“Says the man who shoots civilians without remorse.”

The redhead’s jaw falls open, incredulity momentarily outweighing his anger.  

“I had every right to bring you in! The first thing I did was offer peaceful co-operation and you ran!”

“Fellas, I really rather you didn’t - “

“You turned up at my house and demanded I come with you!” the blonde snaps. “You want to talk law and justice? That’s a breach of every sort of privacy if I ever heard one!”

“Guys - “

“You lost the right to be indignant when you refused to take responsibility and be tried for your crimes like a - “

“FELLAS!” Butters yells, stomping his foot. On the nearby table, the scalpels rattle against the metal tray, the scanner next to it shrieking in alarm at the sudden power surge. “You will stop this right now!”

Instantly, Kenny goes still. Kyle does the complete opposite.

“He's a wanted fugitive, Butters!” he reiterates, raising his voice to match his friend’s. “He has a bounty on his head!”

“He's also an injured man in need of medical attention!” the blonde retorts, frown deepening. “And right now, that takes priority!”

“But - “

“No buts, no coconuts! There will be no fighting, no arresting, no _yelling_ in my clinic! This is a neutral zone!” He pauses to take a deep breath, cheeks pink with the effort. “I _knew_ we should have gotten a bigger sign. Or one for every room, at the least. Now _sit down_ , Kyle, _please_ , or you'll upset your ribs and all that medigel will go to waste!”  
In the back of the room, a bulb pops with a blinding flash.  
Swallowing, the redhead heeds the request, hiding his clenched fists in his lap.  
The doctor nods sharply, hands settling on his hips as he turns to face the now smirking cyborg.  
“And you too, mister!” he snaps, shoving an accusing finger dangerously close to his face. “Don't you go riling up my patients! Get on the examination table and _zip it_!”

The minutes that follow are long, silent and awkward. Butters' angry grumblings slowly transform into his usual soft murmurs, punctuated by sharp scrapes of metallic friction. Kyle fixes his gaze on the floor, desperately wishing he was wearing something more than a flimsy gown.  
Just as the last wire from the clinic’s computer is plugged into Kenny’s arm, there's a sharp knock on the door.

“Doctor, we have a guy in the lobby with a missing arm.” Dougie reports, much too calmly. There are specks of blood splattered across his glasses. “And with him is the creature with said arm in its mouth.”

Idly, Kyle wonders how much the receptionist gets paid. However exorbitant, it's probably not enough.

“Oh, hamburgers.” Butters mutters, gnawing on his lower lip before springing to his feet, already reaching for a new pair of gloves. “I'll be right there!”

He pauses for a second to type furiously with one hand, prompting a cascade of numbers across the screen, too fast to make any sense of it.

“I started the routine scan, Kenny - it shouldn't take long. I'll be back after I've sewn that arm back on.”

He pauses, expression turning very stern, pose reminiscent of a harried kindergarten teacher.

“Please behave.”

And just like that, the two of them are alone.  
If Kyle strains his ears, he can hear the muted roars from the lobby.  
If he were a weaker man, he'd be in tears at this point. His target was there - right there - lying less than a meter away from him, defenceless. Even his face was exposed, customary hood nowhere in sight.  
And here he was, with four cracked ribs and an almost indecent hospital gown - without a gun, without armour, without a bloody camera.

Suddenly, the blonde clears his throat. When Kyle lifts his head, he's startled by the sheer intensity of his expression.  

“I don't care what your reasonings are, but don't start shit.” Kenny says, tone hard. “Not here.”

Quickly recovering, the hunter returns the glare in equal intensity. “I'm not going to break Butters' rules!” he huffs. “I respect him and I'm not a fucking idiot.”

There was a reason why the blonde could remain blissfully neutral on a planet with such turbulent criminal activity.

“Besides.” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Even capturing you wouldn't be worth the shit I'd get from _him_ for upsetting Butters.”

He can feel the blonde’s questioning gaze on him. Helpfully, he refuses to further expand on the topic.  
He really doesn’t expect the other to speak again. So when the blonde clears his throat again, tone disturbingly light, he can’t quite disguise his surprise.   

“That's a nasty bruise. Did you fall off the building after our last chase?”

“...Hardly.”  

“Oh?” Kenny questions, tilting his head. From this angle, his eyelashes look unnaturally long. “Are you seeing other fugitives behind my back?”

Kyle hopes his expression speaks for itself.

“Why are you surprised? You’re a sloppy date.” he sniffs before he can stop himself, chin raised high. “You’re constantly late, quick to exit and always leave me with the bill.”  

He doesn’t expect the laughter either - sudden and surprised, tampering off to breathless sniggers that make Kenny’s entire body shake.  

It’s oddly cute.

“And yet you keep coming back for more.” he replies eventually. His eyes gleam, and once again, Kyle idly wonders if they too are cybernetically enhanced. “Wonder what that says about your tastes, Agent.”

This was getting uncomfortably close to home.  
And uncomfortably comfortable, for that matter. Here he was, bantering with someone who has led him on a merry, humiliating chase around town for the past three days.

“I don’t give up.” he says, curt and colder than initially intended. “That’s what it says. And that’s all you need to know.”  

Kenny seems to catch the hint. Silence settles back in between them, only broken by the rhythmic beeping of the computer.  
The words, so quiet, are almost lost to the echoes of the returning footsteps and the opening door. Still, Kyle catches them right before Butters sweeps back into the room.

“I always did have very bad luck.”

\---

In the end, it’s so stupidly convenient.

The sun’s rays are still scorching when Kyle steps out from his cruiser, the metal under his fingertips blisteringly hot. He snatches his hand back with a grumble, hoisting the sports bag higher onto his shoulder.  
Ike had messaged him just as he got home, sounding unusually harried as he asked for a favour. So there he was, walking up to the university dorms on the other side of the city. He sends a message from their usual meeting spot. Setting the bag down on the ground, he tips his head back to enjoy the warmth, grateful for his foresight to wear sunglasses.  
Above him, the wind rattles through the branches of the tall turquoise trees. A sharp peal of laughter rings out from the side.  
Lazily, he glances off in its direction, searching for the source.  
And there he was again.  
There he was, standing by the gates - wearing much too many layers for the weather - hugging a brunette girl tightly.

“Thanks for the ride, Kenny!” Kyle hears her say. Frankly, he is shocked he can make her voice out above the roar of his own blood in his ears. “And for the lunch!”

The fugitive just shrugs, smile much too tender. “You’re very welcome. I hope you like fish because that’s all I’ve been messing around with.”

The girl nods, expression turning thoughtful. “You know you don’t have to check on me every day, right? I promise I can cook for myself. I haven’t set the kitchen on fire once.”

“Are you trying to deprive your big brother from happiness, Karen?” the cyborg asks, hand clutching his chest just a little dramatically. Judging from her fond eye-roll, this is not the first time they are having this conversation.  

“No, I’m trying to prevent him to working himself to death.” she chides. Her eyes, just as bright as her brothers, are gentle but very firm.  

Gloved hands slide into the pockets of the battered orange parka just as Kenny shifts, unintentionally providing Kyle with an uncomfortably good view of his expression.

“Nothing is too much when it’s for you, Karen.”

He says something else afterwards too. Kyle has no idea what that is because his communicator is beeping with a missed call, and there’s a very ragged-looking young man walking towards him.  
A part of him wants to pull Ike into a hug immediately and drag him towards their family home. He can practically taste an easy, concerned lecture on the tip of his tongue right before he swallows it down, handing him the bag.

“Here you go - extra clothes and your spare suit.”

Ike heaves a relieved sigh, a grin finally splitting across his tired face. “Thanks so much, Kyle.”

Affection surges through him, fiercely. He could count the number of things he wouldn’t do for his brother on one hand.  
“Of course.” he replies. “You can ask me if you need anything, anytime.”

His urgency must have trickled into his tone, because the look Ike gives him is a little odd. Still, he presses on. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah. Course I do.”

\---

He risks a glance back towards the gate once his brother is gone, throat tight. Kenny is still standing there - in the open, on perfectly un-neutral ground. It looks like Karen is in the process of saying goodbye.  
He could very easily follow him out to the parking lot, shadow him until they’re far away from the school.  
He could very easily check the records the university, and search for the name of his sister.

He could  
He should.

The metal is still scalding underneath his fingers as he climbs into his ship, reaching to switch the autopilot on.

He could have. He should have.  
But he went ahead and didn’t.

The thought keeps him awake long into the night.

\---

 

AN:

I just want to say a huge thank you to the wonderful comments I got on the first chapter - please know that you made quite the spectacle of me on various forms of public transport. There was much manic grinning. 

Please check out the amazing art by [townycod13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Townycod13/pseuds/Townycod13) [HERE](http://townycod13.tumblr.com/post/174690785663/catch-me-if-you-can-by-lwtis-i-may-end-up) and [HERE](http://townycod13.tumblr.com/post/174691445383/more-doodles-inspired-by-catch-me-if-you-can-3) for the previous chapter - I'm still not quite over them <3

I hope you enjoyed - any comments are very much appreciated <3


	3. Sleep In The City That Never Wakes Up

It doesn't make sense.

It is around 5 am when he logs onto the university database using Ike's password, entrusted to him last exam season. The guilt nips at him as he scrolls down the page, dodging the remains of his tired argument justifying his actions.  
But he cannot ignore this. He needs to know.

He finds her easily enough. Every prominent extracurricular club is listed on the site, with portraits of the leading members included. Just three photos to his brother’s right on the Newspaper Club's page is the now-familiar brunette, with her dazzling smile and brilliant, brilliant blue eyes.

 _Karen McCormick_.

A deeper search in the database reveals her emergency contact listed as K. McCormick.

Twenty minutes of painful deliberation later, he's typing her name into social media, from his burner account reserved for research.  
Her page is bare of essential information - but she still shares plenty of things publicly. Fashion photo shoots, mood boards, challenging political pieces, polls for future articles.  
And selfies.  
Group shots, mostly, featuring a recurring cast of students. Numerous snaps featuring stray animals. There's even one with the entire Newspaper Club crammed into the frame, Ike included. Despite his slumped posture, even his deadpan little brother is making an effort to smile. Kyle is simultaneously impressed and terrified.  
And finally, buried deep is a family portrait.  
Karen's arm is slung around a blonde boy's shoulders, cheek pressed against his. Despite the tired bags under her eyes, her expression is ecstatic. The caption underneath reads:

 _All moved in to my dorm! I've got the best brothers in the world ♡  
_ _(Pic stolen from Kevin :D)_

His face, per usual is mostly hidden by thick orange fabric. But there's no doubt about it - the person throwing a peace sign at the camera (in perfect symmetry with his sister) is his runaway cyborg.

Kenny McCormick.

After four days, three cracked ribs and one trashed jetpack later, he finally has a name.

\---

He sleeps properly for the first time in four days. Naturally, he forgets to turn off his usual alarms, so his newfound rest is cut off at a mere four hours. Regardless, he sits down at his desk refreshed and determined.  
What follows is the single most frustrating research session of his adult career.

It’s not that there isn’t information on Kenneth McCormick.  
It’s just that the more he discovers, the less sense it all makes.

There's a birth certificate and general records of early education from a small, backwater colony whose name rings somewhat familiar. A quick exchange of messages with Sheila confirms that it's the same colony where his own father was born, and spent every minute of the first eighteen years of his life working to get away from.  
Not that he would put much stock in Gerald’s judgement on what was worthwhile. Still, it didn't paint an encouraging picture.  
(He ignores the confirmation that they're the same age. It's not relevant in the slightest.)  
It is very likely that the parents still reside at the colony. The third sibling, Kevin McCormick was employed by an intergalactic courier service four years ago - something he excelled at, according to his impressive ratings on the page dedicated to rating the various drivers.  
Theoretically, Kenny moved planetside about three years ago with Karen when she started university. He has to make that guess because that's about where the nice comprehensive records just end. There's no university applications, social media accounts, contracts for living arrangements or health insurance - which, considering the neighbourhood he previously inhabited, makes a depressing amount of sense.

The only other thing he can dig up is a ridiculously long employment history. Page after page, from restaurants, hotels and bars to auto repair shops, convenience stores and fuel stations. There's even a four month contract for an opera. All temporary contracts, citing different addresses and contact details (if any).

“How the fuck does someone work this many jobs and still have such lack of official documentation?!” Kyle exclaims to his empty apartment.

What made even less sense was the lack of records for his cybernetics.  
Whereas cybernetic enhancements were common enough in military, mercenary and hacker circles, they were limited to improving the individual's speed and endurance. Modifying entire limbs was a different matter altogether. They were granted to victims of accidents and veterans, or commissioned by wealthy patrons with unique aspirations (and extremely expensive aesthetics). Both routes required a ridiculous amount of paperwork.  
Kenny McCormick had not been involved in any accidents that warranted hospitalization. Nor did he fight in any wars.

Irked, Kyle decides to abandon the cold silent facts of the public information sphere and call Kenny’s previous employers.  
Only to be faced with  _yet more cold silence_.

A handful of the employers cannot recall Kenny personally. A select few give him neutral, non-committal answers - he was a diligent worker, preferred odd hours and graveyard shifts, didn’t speak more than necessary. One of them mentioned his tendency to sometimes drop everything and rush home, claiming family emergencies.  
The majority, however, are deliberately tight-lipped and oddly protective. They all want to know who is asking about Kenny and just exactly why - and are quick to end the conversation once Kyle established the situation. One lady simply hung up on him, whilst another spent a good five minutes just shouting at the hunter for trying to ‘besmirch and frame a good person’.

“What the  _absolute fuck?!_ ” Kyle exclaims to his empty apartment once he’s recovered from his shock, voice cracking with exasperation.  
(Right on cue, there’s a firm knock on the ceiling from his upstairs neighbour.)

By the time he calls the last name on the list - Tuong Lu Kim, restaurant owner - he is somewhat desperate for  _something_.

“Who?” the man barks on the end of the line, accent thick and, frankly, rather offensive.

“Kenny McCormick.” Kyle repeats, irritation seeping into his tone. “Blonde, blue eyes, extensive cybernetic enhancements. Really shit sense of humour. He worked for you for  _seven years._ ”

“Ah!” he hears a snap of a finger, voice brightening. “Dennis!

“...pardon?”

“You mean Dennis! Good boy, good boy. Always work late, always available whenever asked.” He pauses, presumably to throw something into a sizzling hot pan. “Strong arms. Even stronger after ops. Good for lifting sacks.”

“...right.” the redhead agrees cautiously. Close enough.

“He owe you money?” Mr. Kim asks, clicking his tongue. “Not heard from him since he leave for capital. Like all the kids! Minute they turn eighteen, they run off to big city.”

Well he changed his tune fast.

“...wait.” he blurts out, cutting off the other man’s derailing complaints. “...if he left the colony at eighteen, and you worked together for -  _you hired him when he was eleven_ _?!_ ”

“Business was bad!” Mr. Kim snaps. “Verge of shutting down! Could only afford children. Paid well!”

Kyle has  _so many questions_ and just  _so few shits_ left to give.

“...you said he got stronger after the ops.” he manages through gritted teeth. “When was that?”

“Right before he leave!” Mr. Kim says, sounding personally offended. “He heal, he leave!”

That cleared up the timeline a little bit. A small consolation for the inevitable migraine.

“Thank you for your ti - “

“Wait! You say you’re bounty hunter? You want to hire authentic ninja assassins?”

\---

 **//Kyle://** Are you harbouring any murderous intentions towards anyone at the moment

 **//Ike://** I’m in class

 **//Ike://** So yea, a Lot

 **//Kyle://** I have a coupon for an assassination by ninjas. 25% off your first order

 **//Ike://** Kyle what the fuck

 **//Ike://** u ok

 **//Ike://** Actually no don’t answer that

 **//Kyle://** So you don’t want it?

 **//Ike://** of course i want it

 **//Ike://** did u get a loyalty card?

 **//Kyle://** collect 5 assassinations, get a free shuriken

 **//Ike://** neat

 **//Ike://** get some proper sleep l8r or i’ll call mom

\---

It made sense to try and research the arm, to see if the design and make could grant him any leads.  
Three hours ago, at least.

Despite it being a fascinating and indisputably cool topic, the technicalities of cybernetic enhancements were  _incredibly_ dry. There was no end to drawings that made robotic limbs as exciting as a fancy electric whisks - as well as dozens of studies where entire pages were dedicated to the phenomenal(ly dull) results of modifying a single screw.  
Kyle finds himself wishing he had given into his sixth grade whim and pursued sciences. Maybe then he would feel enlightened instead of seconds away from throwing something out of the window. Or revisiting the wanted-poster-dart board idea, for the sake of his deposit.

He's re-reading the same paragraph on a prosthetic designed to aid mining when something finally catches his eye. He knocks an empty mug off the desk in his haste to grab the datapad containing the security footage of his first arrest attempt. He jabs at the screen until it displays the moment right before Kenny fell off the roof - arms spread, coat torn, eyes manic. Biting his lip, he takes quick inventory of the wires and metallic components, checking them against the technical drawings of the most common market models.

He didn't have an inhibitor.

Every model he had seen so far drew special attention to the sleek little feature that prevented the cybernetics from causing too much strain on the organic parts of the body. Before the implementation of the inhibitors, most cyborg experiments ended in failure. In the best case scenario, the user would be in a lot of pain - in the worst (and most common) case, they would die.

And yet.  
And  _yet_.  
His hastily-made coffee tastes exactly like his anger and confusion brewed into one, scalding his tongue and making his empty stomach lurch.

His communicator chirps out a familiar ringtone. Without looking, he smacks a hand on the screen to accept the call.

“Did you know that for the first year of trying to create prototype cyborgs, every experiment ended with the death of the patient? The technology completely overwhelmed their bodies. One time, it literally fried someone's brain.”

“Dude. I left you alone for a day.”

“There were pictures too. You'd think a public encyclopaedia would have compulsory viewing filter for this kind of shit.”

“It does. You learnt how to disable them back in middle school.” Stan snorts. There's muffled shouting on his end. “Butters is asking if you've been using the ointment.”

“Tell your boyfriend to stop working.” the redhead replies automatically with a twinge of guilt. As if to mock him, pain shoots through his ribs as he straightens his spine for the first time in hours.

“I should get that on a shirt. With you two, it'd get plenty of use.”

It's familiar enough of a dig that the answer about living with a workaholic doctor is already on the tip of Kyle's tongue. His gaze flickers over to his desk, unbidden, to the diagrams once again.

“...actually, could you put him on for a second?”

\---

“Heyah, Kyle! How are the ribs?”

“Temperamental.” he replies, unable to hide his little guilty smile. “I need to pick your brain on a medical matter.”

“They're so,  _so_ slimy, brains are.” the blonde remarks with a shudder. “But sure!”

“How essential are inhibitors for cybernetic upgrades?”

There's a pause. When he next speaks, Butters’ tone is careful. “Ah - I'm not an expert on the matter, really. I just know enough to be able to patch things up before referring the patient to a specialist.”

“But are they, in your experience?”

“They're...important. Faulty inhibitors put a lot of strain on the body.”

“...Kenny doesn't have one, does he?”

He can practically taste Butters’ discomfort in the ensuing silence. He grits his teeth.

“...Butters, please. You're my only hope at this point.”

“Oh, my stars.” he finally mumbles, clearing his throat. “You know I'd love to help, but I take doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously, Kyle.”

“I know, I'm not asking you to - “ he pauses to take a deep breath, feeling his remaining composure crumble. “It's not like I can track him by his enhancements - or  _anything_. The more I find out, the less sense it all makes and I just - I just need to know.”

He must sound truly pathetic, judging by the soft sound that escapes the other male.

“It's why I insist he comes in for so many checks and tune-ups. Honestly, I wish I could source him one but it's beyond my budget.” he admits, sounding upset. “Not that he would ever accept it, in any case.”

“Why not?”

“Me spend all that money on him when I could spend it on my clinic or even myself? Why, he would hate the thought of that.”

_Right. Sure._

“And what's stopping him from just stealing an upgrade?” he asks, unable to hold his tongue. “With his speed and agility, it'd be child's play.”

“Kenny would never do that!” The words practically burst out of Butters, voice pitching with disbelief. “That, you can be sure of!”

 -

His ferocity buries itself deep in his mind, echoing long after hasty excuses and goodbyes were exchanged.

It made some sense. A crime on that scale would inevitably result in full-scale investigations, proper canvassing, a thousand trained eyes. Not only on him, but his sister too.  
But then where was this consideration when he injured policemen and vandalised private property?  
It feels like he was chasing after two separate people. The fugitive from the wanted poster, and the man from the passionate recounting of others.  
It was getting hard to reconcile the two together.

He glances over at the coffee maker on his counter, dark and traitorous, and feels his stomach coil in protest.

He needs a drink.

\--- 

Amongst the people in the know, there are two facts universally acknowledged.  
If you wanted pounding music, alcohol and a stage for making dubious life choices, you went to the nightclub Thanatos.  
If you wanted a good mug of coffee and a place to clear your head for a few hours, you went to Tweek’s.  
A fairly open secret tucked between the VR cineplex and the planet’s most questionable storage unit, it was one of Kyle’s favourite places to visit. There were only two rules - leave your weapons at the door, and don’t upset the owners.  

Once scanned and relieved of his gun, he is allowed down the narrow stairs. The scent soon winds its way to his nose, warm and heavy with spices he cannot name. The chatter is low and lively, most of the tables already occupied. A carefully painted night sky is splashed on the walls and across the ceiling, astronomically-accurate stars twinkling in luminescent paint. In the corner stands a vintage piano with well-loved ivory keys, a dozen small framed photographs balanced on top.  

At a quick glance, Kyle can spot the familiar tail of Clyde Donovan, curled nearly around the leg of his table, Token sitting opposite him. Judging from the laughter from the corner, Jimmy has made his appearance too. He makes a note to say hi later as he makes his way to the counter.

Back in the day, Tweek was a member of the most heinous gang on the planet, one whose control span the better half of the Wildlands. Their front-line warriors, nicknamed Warboys, were the personification of every cult’s wet dream - vicious, blindly devoted and chemically dependant, ready to die for their cause within a heartbeat. Painted ghostly white and armed with long lances tipped with explosives, they were the banes of travellers and traders planet-wide.  
Despite having taken the world’s most generic and boring occupation of a space marine, Craig still managed to get on the squad that was ambushed during a routine scout mission. And it was there - with guns pressed against his temple, arms chained behind his back, vision blurry with blood and grit - that he met Tweek.  
Naturally, their first interaction involved blunt words and an attempt at biting the blonde’s fingers off.  
His fellow Warboys only saw it fit to gift the marine to him. Gleefully, they expected Tweek to spend the rest of the week slowly torturing him to his excruciating death. Instead, what followed was an unexpected, epic romance that accumulated with the two of them making a spectacular break for the capital and freedom - in the feared leader’s prized vehicle. They left behind a trail of corpses long enough for their pursuers to eventually dry up, the cult deciding to cut their losses. They’ve been in the city since, their home right above the shop, adopting more small, fuzzy creatures with every passing year.

Impulsively, the redhead’s gaze flickers to the wall behind the counter. Just below the ceiling hangs Craig’s old service gun and Tweek’s old weapon - like an odd, imbalanced coat of arms.

Deep down, Kyle finds the whole tale terribly romantic.

A rag is tossed into his field of vision, the rest of the former warrior soon following in a flurry of rapid movement. His upper chest is bare, per usual, bold scarifications on display. If allowed close enough, the faint tattoos around his chapped lips and sharp nose were still visible to the eye.

“Kyle.” he nods, hands busy with aggressively wiping down the granite. “What will it be?”

Kyle lets himself slump forwards, forehead making contact with the counter with a soft ‘thunk’. The groan that follows encompasses all his feeling in four very intense seconds.   
He hears Tweek snigger, followed by a clink of china.

“Gotcha. Coming up.”

The world is at a blissful standstill for the next three minutes. Tweek doesn't try to strike up a conversation, something he's eternally grateful for. The background chatter fades to white noise, the warmth seeping deep into his tired bones, making his eyelids feel particularly heavy. Soon enough, a mug is nudged in front of him. It's ridiculously large and sports a twisted tower of foam at the top, accompanied by a small star-shaped pastry. The sweet scent takes him right back to the rainy evening when Tweek first made him this particular drink - after the hunter practically fell into the shop. Drenched and exhausted, it had been exactly what he needed. It was also the instance that, in his mind, marked the shift in their relationship towards friendship.

Finally, he feels himself relax.

\---

When he first catches sight of the orange coat, he reprimands himself for stiffening. Stan was right - he is getting much too wrapped up in this case and now he’s seeing monsters in every shadow and every flash of orange.  
Just to be certain, he looks again.  
_Son of a fucking bitch._

He can't recall the last time he wished to be paranoid instead of right, but here he was. Staring -  _once again_ \- at the unfairly symmetrical profile of Kenny The Asshole Cyborg.  
(At this point, he's shocked they hadn't bumped into each other whilst grocery shopping yet.)  
The fugitive hasn't noticed him yet, eyes glued to the screen of his datapad.  
If Butter’s clinic was neutral ground, this was practically pilgrimage territory. He only had to look to the stained carpet for a reminder of the last guy who tried to start shit. He glances over again, a smidgen more subtle - just in time to see Kenny’s smile, soft and tender.   
The image of Karen flashes through his mind, arms tight around her brother's frame. The warmth of the old neighbour, Butter’s fierce conviction. The lady on the phone.  
No one is that good of an actor.

It takes five steps to carry him across the room to Kenny’s table. It takes one mug placed on the table with a firm hand to grab the blonde’s attention.  
Kyle slides into the seat opposite him, not waiting for permission. By the time their eyes meet again, Kenny’s expression has been schooled into a polite smirk. He casually lays a hand over his datapad, hiding the screen from sight.

“...Agent Broflovski.”  

“Mr. McCormick.” the hunter replies after a beat. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees fingers clench into a startled fist.  

“This is getting a little predictable, isn’t it?” Kenny quips a beat too late, tilting his head. Despite the light tone, his gaze is razor sharp. “Obsessive stalking isn’t healthy.”

_Neither is getting cybernetic enhancements without an inhibitor. Or jumping off roofs. Or antagonizing agents of the law._

“Don’t flatter yourself.” he says aloud. The sound of his spoon clinking against his mug is deafening. “This has been my regular spot for years. If anyone should be throwing accusations, it should be me.”

“Great minds think alike?” the cyborg offers. He lifts his own mug, its contents identical to Kyle's drink. Right down to the half eaten star-shaped pastry.

He blinks slowly, thoughts rapidly overlapping. He hides his expression behind a quick sip. “Most people end up here by invitation or association. Are you an old friend of theirs?”

“Who doesn't know Tweek and Craig around here?” the blonde replies with an easy shrug of a shoulder. “You'd have to be living under a rock to not know about their story and their establishment.”

He’s deflecting. Trying to distance himself and the owners. But Kyle knows Tweek doesn't make that particular drink just for any old stranger. It's reserved for long time regulars, for people he actually likes. And most icebergs warm up to new people quicker than the former Warboy.

“I don’t suppose you’re here to tell me you’ve found a better use for your time than chasing me around town?” Kenny asks, all saccharine-sweet. His long eyelashes flutter, and Kyle’s brain stutters. With anger.

“Don’t count on it.” he snaps. “I told you - I don't give up.”

Blue eyes narrow ever so slightly, a crack of frustration through his armour.

“I saw the bail - it’s really not that impressive. Kinda insulting, really.” he says, leaning forwards. “But definitely not enough to warrant this kind of enthusiasm.”

“It's not about the money!” Kyle hisses. He can't help but feel insulted. “It's about my job. About justice and the law!”

There's a snort before Kenny’s lips curl and his head tips forward, shoulders shaking with laughter. It's nothing like the delighted sound from their previous meeting - it's dark, cruel and mocking. It makes every hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“What's so funny?” he bristles, knuckles paling as his grip tightens. It earns him a smile, cold and unkind.

“I'm trying to figure out whether you're  _that_ naive or just surprisingly stupid.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Law and justice?” he echoes, voice low. “That's what you're calling this pathetic excuse of a system? Our capital jewel of a planet, one of the supposed prime examples of human advancement on a galactic scale, and this is what we have to show?” He spreads his arms, bitterness seeping deep into his words. “A stunning, overpriced capital with most of its population crammed underneath it, caught between gang warfare and a planet trying to constantly kill them? It's a cesspool, and no one at the top raises a fucking finger to change anything. The whole thing is rotten, down to its core, and the enforcers in it are all too quick to milk it for all its worth.”

For a long moment, Kyle cannot breathe.  
But only for a moment.

“Oh, so the solution is to take the law into our own hands?!” he snaps, the  _arrogance_ of it all making him seethe. “Think ourselves above the law? Play judge, jury and executioner all at once?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the towering outline of Craig's frame by the bar. He can also feel a scowl being directed his way, but its place on his list of current priorities is indescribably low.

“Complacency is much worse when you are capable of making a difference and choose to stand on the side and do nothing!” Kenny retorts, words practically a growl. The hunter remains unimpressed.

“And what gives  _you_ the right to decide what's right or just?!”

“Oh, so  _you’re_ just because you've been patted on the head by those who profit off the suffering of others?” the blonde snarls, his teeth startlingly sharp. Kyle can't tear his eyes away. “Open your eyes! The Wastelands are a death sentence - if the raiders don't kill you, the water will! If you can't afford the overpriced lifestyle in the central, you're at the mercy of the gangs and their petty power struggles! They bleed the people dry for protection money, then let them get hurt anyways!” His eyes, suddenly a lot closer, crackle with unnatural intensity. “So I'm just  _wondering_. Is it naivete that has you convinced you're righteous? Or is it stupidity?”

He is angry and being  _unfair_. Kyle can feel the other's rapid breath on his face and his throat  _burns_ with words unsaid.  
He wants to tell Kenny that changing the ecosystem of an entire planet would take years, impossible funding and an unprecedented amount of alien technology.  
He wants to tell him that he knows and that ever so often every action he takes feels futile and worthless and it makes him want to  _scream_.  
He wants to tell him that he is _still a fucking criminal_.

But Kenny doesn’t give him a chance to.

“And Cartman? Of all fucking people, you choose to do Cartman's dirty work?” he continues, expression twisting with disgust. “That caricature of a sheriff who bought and manipulated his way into power? The one who always promises prosperity through community, whilst he's off sending desperate, indebted people off to the mines?!” A finger presses into his chest, painfully hard “Where's the law for those people, Agent Broflovski? Where's the  _justice?”_

His spoon clutters noisily to the ground. Kyle doesn't even notice it, mind going completely blank before the blood starts roaring in his ears.  
_What._

“ _What_.” His rasp is unrecognizable to his own ears. He gets a blasé look in response.

“Oh, don't give me that. Where do you think all that money for that ridiculous townhouse came from? Why do you think that no matter what ridiculous scheme he pulls, he never seems to go bankrupt?”

Kyle stares at the cyborg until his vision starts to blur, implications sinking in slowly.  
And just like that, hazy pieces start falling in place.

The rumours about the untapped mineral mines at the edge of the city, deemed too dangerous to harvest - too unstable, too risky. The inexplicable funds. The masses of people, all-too desperate for a way to make ends meet.  
His hands shoot out, grabbing Kenny’s arm in a tight grip. The blonde recoils, but Kyle doesn't relent.

“Do you have proof?” he croaks out, voice unable to decide between begging and demanding. Something in his expression gives Kenny pause. Slowly, he pulls back, fingers swiping across his datapad. After a few moments, he tilts the screen towards Kyle.

Photo after rapid photo, the horrible reality of his words is confirmed. There's even a hastily recorded video at the end to really drive it home.  
Like a broken animatronic, he slumps into his seat, nausea swirling across his tongue and down his throat.

He has been duped.  
He made little secret of his dislike for those who played vigilante - who evaded the law and thought themselves above the law. Cartman knew - and he knew that Kyle never backed down from a challenge like this. He fucking knew, and Kyle had played into his hands like a fucking fiddle.

His fist slams into the table, making the mugs rattle dangerously.

“That fucking  _piece of shit_!” Kyle all but shouts. The pain barely registers as his fist connects with the table once again. Kenny’s expression, morphed into one of shock, is the only thing he can see. “The next time I see that fat bastard, I’m - “

His words are abruptly cut off as a spear slams into their table, only an inch away from their hands.

Silence falls over the shop floor. Reluctantly, they both turn towards the bar to face the furious barista.  
(The old weapon is still on the wall, Kyle notes numbly. Just how many spears did Tweek keep behind the counter?)

“ _You're disturbing my customers._ ” the former warrior snarls, tone promising  _pain_. A small chirp tells him Craig is most definitely taking pictures. “  _Fucking - nghhh - cut it out_!”

As if reaching for a hive of particularly angry bees, Kenny slowly reaches to wrap his fingers around the hilt of the spear, yanking it free before carrying it back to the bar, his expression impossibly sheepish. Kyle ducks his head, painstakingly counting down inside his head until his hands stop trembling, throat no longer clogged with anger and humiliation.

The chair scrapes across the floor noisily as Kenny clambers back on.

“I’m not entirely comfortable with this trend of upsetting our very powerful friends every time we meet, Agent Broflovski.”

He probably intended for his voice to be light-hearted. A quick glance tells him that all the previous fury has gone out of the blonde, leaving him tired and boneless.  
Defeated, almost.  
It looks wrong on him.

Kyle waits for the surrounding chatter to resume its previous volumes before clearing his throat.

“...I didn’t know.” he says awkwardly, resisting the urge to squirm in his seat. “Whether you find it hard to believe or not, it’s the truth. If I knew, I never…”

He bites his lip, swallowing the rest of the sentence. ‘What ifs’ and regrets are pretty, empty words that help no-one and solve nothing.  
What you would have done doesn’t matter.

“But now I know.” he says, fingers clenching into fists once more. “And I’m going to make sure he cannot get away with it for any longer.”

Taking a deep breath, he jumps to his feet, voice a conspiratorial whisper.   

“Kenny McCormick, will you help me?”

The expression on Kenny’s face is less than intelligent. “...what?”

“...I’m going to take down Cartman.” Kyle clarifies, struggling to keep his irritation at bay. “ _Are you going to help me_?”

A spark flashes across the cyborg’s eyes. He masks it quickly, eyebrows raising as he moves to cross his arms.

“I’m the one with the evidence. What makes you think I need your help?”

“You’re a wanted fugitive.” the hunter feels inclined to point out. “One that Cartman is pretty desperate to throw behind bars. He’s sold you as an immoral criminal on a power trip, and he won’t hesitate to set the entire union on you if needed. I could help you evade them long enough to build a rock-solid case.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation. That’s all he needs.

“Besides - don’t you want revenge?” he presses, voice dropping as he leans in. “What were you going to do - call in an anonymous tip? Send an anonymous package? Wait for the higher-ups to quietly make him disappear to some colony on the edge of the galaxy?” He can feel his lips tugging into an ugly grin, all of his earlier anger turning into manic determination. “Wouldn’t you prefer a public humiliation that he would never,  _ever_ be able to escape from?”

The spark bursts across Kenny’s eyes again before the blonde glances away in consideration. When he turns to face the hunter again, the spark has grown into a wildfire.

He reaches across the table, offering the redhead his hand.  
Without hesitation, Kyle grabs it.

When their fingers wind together, he could swear the mechanical digits burn against his skin, warm as his own.

\---

 

AN:

This chapter gave me a looot of trouble - I hope the slight monster of a length makes up for the delay! (The intense bonding starts next chapter, and it will involve lobsters.)

Also - if you're enjoying the bounty hunter/cyborg goodness, I highly recommend [panaceaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/panaceaa/pseuds/panaceaa)'s [We Called Them Monsters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929328/chapters/34586018) ! They're a wonderfully talented writer, and I'm so excited to see the story unfold!

Just in case - [Warboy Tweek](http://southparkphonedestroyer.wikia.com/wiki/Warboy_Tweek) and [Space Marine Craig](http://southparkphonedestroyer.wikia.com/wiki/Marine_Craig) !

Thank you again for all the wonderful comments, and for all the new kudos/subscriptions - I truly appreciate them all <3


	4. A Thousand Places Better Than This

“It's Sunday, Kahl.”

_Congratulations. You've finally learnt the different days of the week._

“It is.” he replies aloud, in the most neutral tone he can muster.

“Around these parts, Sunday is the end of the week.” Cartman drawls, meaty fingers drumming on his desk. “I seem to recall you promising me a dangerous fugitive by the end of the week.”

He is _really_ enjoying the chance to gloat. Kyle is tempted to take a step backwards, just in case he starts enjoying it a little _too_ much.

“You didn't tell me this cyborg has been targeting the mining operations directly.”

To Cartman's credit, his expression barely shifts beyond a raised eyebrow.

“Does that change anything?” he sneers, leaning back in his seat. His chair creaks pitifully. “He’s still a dirty criminal that needs to be put down.”

Keeping a straight face is harder than anticipated, but he manages. “Sure. But if he's working on this scale, there's no way he's flying solo.”

As he reaches for his datapad, he can see fingers clenching into fist out of the corner of his eye. Feigning ignorance, he presents his report to Cartman, the very model of professionalism.

“I found leads that suggest he’s working for a smuggling ring - a group of exiles from the wildlands.” he says, tapping at the screen. “They’re testing boundaries. Trying to muscle their way into the city’s resources.”

He takes his time with the report. There are photos, screenshots, maps. It’s a collaborative masterpiece, painstakingly assembled by Kenny and himself mere hours ago, and he’s very proud of it. “This rogue cyborg is most likely only a forerunner. Their fast grunt, for all intents and purposes. The real important players are yet to make their appearance.”

A glance confirms that Cartman is entranced. His eyes, wide and delighted, are already brimming with greedy anticipation of such a big arrest.  
With a final sweep of his fingers, he concludes the well-rehearsed pitch. He leans forwards, grin eager and voice heated.   

“So. Is bringing down an entire ring of rebel smugglers worth a few extra days to you?”

As he walks down the corridor, extension graciously granted, he doesn't even bother to tone down the smugness radiating from his every move.  
_Hook, line and sinker._

-

“He ate it up. We've got the extension.”

The place Kenny had chosen as a rendezvous point was an alley behind a third-rate takeout restaurant, obscured by constant noise and steam. Perfect for their purpose.   
It also smelled and was crawling with frighteningly fat raccoon-like creatures that were entirely too comfortable with their presence.

The cyborg nods, moving to tug his hood down. “Good. Let's go through the list again.”

Written on paper (at Kenny’s insistence for security) and finalised around sunrise, was their plan of attack to bring Cartman down. It also featured an assignment of tasks in two clean columns, with the occasional crossover. The tax department, the Sheriff's long-suffering employers and the police were Kyle's responsibility. The black market, rumour mills and reconnaissance at the mining site fell to Kenny. Once their case was solid, they would talk to the former workers together, asking them to step up as witnesses.

“We should tackle the district closest to the mines.” the blonde suggests after a moment's contemplation. “You can question the local hunters and police whilst I sneak in and go through their records.”

“Let's go then.” Kyle says with an impatient tap of his foot. In his head, he's already rehearsing the words that will open all the necessary doors.

He’s three steps towards the street before Kenny clears his throat.

“...where are you going?”

“To my ship?” Kyle replies, eyebrows raised. “It's in the furthest corner of the parking lot.”

Kenny’s brows twitch.

“And where exactly were you planning to inconspicuously park that massive, shiny ship, Agent? On the roof of the only five-storey building in the whole neighbourhood?” he asks, eyebrow raised. “That aside, it’ll get picked apart for parts in a hot minute.”

Kyle opens his mouth to argue this - then promptly closes it. Flying over the district once wouldn’t make him an expert on the area.

The blonde’s grin is wide and a little crooked. Kyle kind of hates him for it. “We can take my cruiser, and ditch it next to the other illegally parked vehicles by the microbrew.”

Kenny’s cruiser. The beat-up little hover-bike sporting a hentai sticker on its spoiler. Held together by duct tape and feverish prayers.

“And where exactly were you planning to put me?” he feels inclined to ask, voice snappier than intended. “Dangling from the aft?”

The grin only grows. Light from the broken street lamps flicker over his cybernetics as he steps closer.  

“The cruiser seats two passengers. You just need to get in reaaaal close.”

Fingers brush against his shoulder playfully before he’s out of reach, pulling himself up onto the fire escape ladder. Kyle has no choice but to follow.

-

Somehow, the bike looks even worse than he remembered.  
Unaware (or ignorant) of his distress, Kenny unlocks the chains around the handles, retrieving two helmets from under the seat. He waits until the redhead reluctantly sits, head protection in place before swinging a leg over the chassis, key sliding into the ignition.  
Kyle feels both justified and just a _little_ uncomfortable at the revelation that he was _completely right_ in claiming this was _not a two-passenger vehicle_. His knees bump into the back of the blonde’s thighs, the proximity forcing him to practically spoon the other.  
(He is just touch-starved, he reminds himself, once again grateful for the helmet. It’s been a while since he’s been in such close proximity with another human being he wasn’t completely repulsed by. That’s all.)

”Better hold on tight!”

The engine roars to life with a twist of the handles. Kyle only gets that shout as warning before they’re lifting off the ground. His hands grab onto the other’s shoulders in a death grip as the cruiser makes a neck-breaking turn off the edge of the roof.  

(He doesn’t scream at any point and he’s extremely proud of himself for that.).

The microbrew is in full swing when they touch ground again, the designated parking area almost full. Laughter and fragmented notes of terrible music drift through the air, masking the sound of their arrival. Kenny kills the engine with a grin, patting the fuel tank fondly before hopping off. The redhead follows a beat later, with significantly weaker knees.  
As he waits for the nausea to dissipate, he takes quick inventory of their surroundings. Amongst the battered carrier ships and decades-old cargo vehicles missing doors and rear view mirrors, Kenny’s bike doesn't even stand out.  
(The ship opposite them has a cracked windshield, patched up with duct tape. Like _that_ will aid you in exiting the atmosphere.)

“Thanks for the ride.” he says, because his mother didn't raise a rude man. “Barring any emergencies, I'll meet you back here.”

“Gotcha.” Kenny lets him walk exactly three steps away before calling after him. “Hope the shoulder-grab wasn't too much for you, bro?”

His tone is one reserved for dudebros who get freaked out by the mere notion of hugging their friends. The implication is so absurd and ironic that Kyle almost laughs. He manages a sniff instead, expression haughty when he glances back.

“Hardly. But I didn't see a nice shirt, or an invitation to dinner. So that's all you're getting.”

The whole hellish ride was worth it for that perfect moment of Kenny struck speechless. The laugh that follows is a nice bonus too.

“Ah, my bad.” he manages, fingers tugging at his collar. “Didn't think the mood was _quite_ right between getting kicked out of Tweek’s and planning a coup.”

_Excuses, excuses._

“Oh, you'll get your chance.” Kyle assures him easily. He tosses the helmet at the blonde. “Because the one who finishes last tonight will be the one buying dinner.”

“ _Seriously_? I'm going to have to evade the whole night guard, you just get to walk straight in!”

“There's no need for excuses, Mr. McCormick. If you're not up for it, just say so.”

Blue eyes narrow at him before the hood is being tugged back on, fitting over a determined expression.

“I always did want to try that swanky penthouse restaurant. Bring it, Broflovski!”

\---

Working with Kenny is strange.

When he made his bold declaration and offer for a partnership, retribution was the only thing on his mind. He hadn't exactly thought to consider the small details.  
Small details like it might be awkward to spend most of his waking hours with a man he had, just days ago, shot and handcuffed against his will. Before dragging him to  _Cartman_ .   
And oh, it _was awkward_. The initial silences were long and painful, neither of them quite sure how to fill them without the context of their previous chase. Add to that Kyle's lack of proper sleep schedule, perfectionism and his irritation with vigilantism, and it was a recipe for a hot mess.

That being said, it was surprisingly easy to start working the case together. For all his laid-back attitude, fondness for lewd jokes and catastrophic puns, Kenny was smart, sharp and just as dedicated as the hunter to see this whole thing through. He approached the case with fierce determination and almost frightening intensity. His contacts reached far and wide, from politicians’ assistants to hermits in the wildlands.   
It’s fascinating to witness.

They're sorting through the district's registration records when Kyle decides to swallow his pride.

“I. Uh.” he coughs, fingers twisting into the fabric of his sweater under the table. The inquisitive look aimed his way doesn't help one bit. “I apologise for shooting you when we first met.”

Kenny blinks at him. And then he shrugs.

“Eh, it happens. At least you only knocked me out.” he says. “Sorry about your jetpack.”

And that's it.  
Like they were discussing a misplaced sweater.  
He wasn't about to complain about how easily that issue was resolved but _what the hell_.  
Unaware of his inner turmoil, the blonde marks his page with a bright pink slip of paper before flicking it shut and tossing it onto the pile. His eyes are twinkling when he gets to his feet to stretch.

“We all good then, Agent Broflovski?” His playful voice strains as he cracks each of his shoulders in turn. Kyle can only nod dumbly.

“Cool. Let's grab a coffee and get this show on the road.”

-

There's a photo pinned on the wall behind Tweek’s counter.  
It remains there even after Kyle rubs at his eyes and glares at it with the intensity of two pissed-off suns, the figures depicted on it infuriatingly familiar.

“Tucker.” he says, through gritted teeth.

“Broflovski.” comes the monotone reply. He's sitting at the bar, filling in a crossword puzzle on his datapad because he's a _fucking asshole._ Craig only ever made coffee for Tweek, some complicated concoction that deserved a hazard label.

“ _Why_ is that photo tacked up on the wall behind you?”

Craig has the audacity to turn to look at the photo - the one _he took_ of Kenny and Kyle, moments after Tweek threw a spear at their table. As if he doesn't know what the redhead is seething about.

“Oh, that.” he hums, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “It makes me laugh.”

One day, the universe will grant Kyle his well-deserved-vengeance. Sooner or later.

“I thought Tweek was pretty particular about paper stuff behind the counter, where all the steamers are.” Kenny quips in from the side. He looks _amused_. All of the redhead’s new-found appreciation for him evaporates in a second.

“Tweek likes it when I laugh. He thinks I have a nice smile.” A crude mockery of said smile splits across Craig's face. Rudely enough, his gaze is already back on the puzzle.

Kyle thinks that's the end of it. He's in the middle of tapping out a very angry food order into the shop's automated system when the former marine speaks again.

“Plus I thought it'd be good to have it on hand for the wedding.” His voice is nonchalant, smirk still in place. “It'll be good for the anecdotal and embarrassing stories segment.”

An order for 200 servings is put through when Kyle's fingers slip, cheeks flushing furiously with indignation.  
(He does not deserve this. He advised Craig on an appropriate anniversary present last year when he was stuck. He always tipped generously. He is a _good fucking person Goddamit_.)  
Before he can recover from his imitation of a rage-stricken goldfish, an arm slides around his torso.

“With that attitude, you'll be lucky if you get invited.” Kenny croons, tone teasing. He gives Kyle's waist a squeeze, completely undeterred by the statue-like reactions. “Now be a dear and go see where your better half is~”

Steady hands steer him towards the table in the corner of the shop, pushing him down into the seat. Somehow, all the files they’ve been accumulating are already in front of him in neat little piles. As he exhales, a datapad is already being nudged into his hands.  

“Why is he such a fucking dick?!” he hisses as the blonde takes a seat opposite him. He gets a shrug in response.

“One of the great unsolved mysteries of the ages. Let’s tackle it after we solve Cartman's tax fraud.”

-

“They're sweet, aren't they?”

Attention still on the infuriating numbers, Kyle makes a vague noise of assent. The blonde takes it as a cue to continue.

“Every time I hear the story, it somehow gets crazier. In the last retelling, Tweek single-handedly defeated all the scavengers before throwing Craig over his shoulder and sprinting off into the sunset.”

Kyle snorts, finally glancing up from his screen.

“I think Craig would be okay with that, actually. It's better than when Tweek somehow gets turned into this weak damsel in distress.”

Their gazes flicker over to the bar just in time to see a knife being thrown at the wall.

“Honey, watch the wiring.” Craig chides, tone entirely too calm for a situation involving flying blades.

“There was a bug near the pastries!” his husband snaps, rubber gloves already in hand. “Who knows where that flew in from, what they carry! Do you _want_ a contamination incident?!”

“I know, but the maintenance guy always looks ready to cry every time we call him out to fix the cables. It’d be a hassle trying to find another one.”

_Ah, marital bliss._

“All these years, and their story is still as popular as ever.” Kyle remarks. He receives a grin in response.

“What's your favourite part, Agent?”

The question gives him pause. He mulls over it for a long minute.

“How love can make you do incredible things, I suppose.” he says eventually, absentmindedly twirling his pen between his fingers. “How it can inspire you to do better, give you that little push that you need. Just - isn't that a fantastic thought?”

He thinks of Stan, his plans for the future, and his growing streak of days gone without touching liqueur.  
He thinks of Craig and Tweek, the tangible adoration surrounding them both. Scars remain, of course - in echoes of Tweek’s violent withdrawal symptoms and pallid, skeleton-like appearance, in Craig’s sharp flinches at every sudden slam of the a door. But they stand strong together, each passing year making them just a little softer.  
He thinks of his mother and her unwavering strength and determination when it came to protecting him and Ike, no matter the cause or the enemy.  
He thinks of Kenny and Karen, the sheer strength and joy in their every action he had the chance to witness.

He gets no response. When Kyle glances over, the cyborg’s eyes are pensive, lips tugged into a small smile.

“What?” he asks, the stretching silence making him feel defensive. The blonde shakes his head.

“You just surprised me, Agent.” he says. His voice is surprisingly soft. “You seem to do that a lot.”

The words send a jolt through him. They wriggle down his spine, like so many tingly ants, leaving him strangely warm.  

“Isn't this whole title thing getting redundant?” he mutters, jabbing at his screen harder than necessary. He can feel the tips of his ears getting red, and is grateful for the protection of his impossible hair. “Just call me Kyle.”

The smile he receives in response is much, much sweeter than it has any business being.

\---

Tweek eventually starts leaving a sign on their corner table, marking it as permanently Reserved.  

They can’t afford to spend every evening in the shop, as much as they’d like. As much as the shop enjoyed a certain level of exclusivity, it was still located in the heart of the city. Sooner or later, they’d catch someone’s eye. Instead, they alternate between empty warehouses and back rooms of crumbling offices. Butters has generously offered them the sound-proofed room in his clinic, delighted to see the two of them working together.  
Their regular, extensive presence in the shop still attracts attention, inevitably. There’s a lot of raised eyebrows. Some whispers. Oddly enough, the most common reaction is excitement, with a lot of thumbs up and mouthed encouragements aimed Kyle’s way.

Some evenings, they're joined for a drink by Token and Clyde. They're already acquainted with Kenny (because of course they are) and they don't ask nosy questions - the ideal company. (Clyde is dying to ask questions. Token dutifully deters him every time, with either a gentle hand to the arm or a kick to the shin.)   
Often, the pair bring their ‘kids’ along - two large, red lobster-like creatures. Kyle isn’t exactly sure whether they are...truly their children, or if it’s merely an affectionate joke. At this point, he's too scared to ask. Considering they were both aliens, it’s enough of a chance the inquiry would come across as really rude and uneducated. They're harmless enough, spending most of their time safely tucked between Clyde’s neck plates or the thick folds of Token’s scarf. Occasionally, they'd interrupt the conversation with urgent chirps - a demand for food or just acknowledgement. Kenny liked them a lot, to the point of being a little distracted in their presence.  

It's two hours past sunset, and Kyle dodges another careless patron, grip on their mugs deadly. He’s so occupied with preventing any spillage that he only notices the kids when he slides back into his seat.

“...how did you get roped into babysitting? I was gone for ten minutes.”

“They had to take a call.” the cyborg replies. Fingers curling around a pincer, he clicks his tongue, and gets a happy chirp in response. “Apparently, these little guys get too excited when they hear Grandma’s voice over the comms.” He carefully scoops the bigger creature up, guiding them to his shoulder. Immediately, they crawl into the fuzzy hood of his jacket with a satisfied chirp.  

“Ah.” Kyle offers. He reaches to move the mugs and the precious documents within safe distance.

“They like bright colours. I thought they’d go straight for the food, but they’re only interested in the jacket.”

True to his word, there are tiny pincers tugging at the worn material, accompanied by low, excited trills. It’s an image cute enough to have the redhead hiding a smile behind his mug. He’s about to flip a folder open when Kenny whips his head up with a grin.

“Do you wanna hold them?”

“I don’t think that’s a - ” he begins, cut off as the blonde gets to his feet.  

“Just hold out your arms.”

Before he can protest further, he is holding armful of squirming, curious alien children. Alien children who have never seen red hair before - judging by the speed at which they crawl upwards, prompting him to stiffen. Kenny’s eyes twitch.

“How you feelin’?” he has the gall to ask, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

_There’s alien crustaceans with too many legs in my hair. It's weird and I'm afraid._

“Hrggghfg.” he replies out loud.

There’s a soft click to his right, accompanied by Craig’s barely concealed sniggering.  
Once they bought Cartman down, he was packing his shit up and migrating to Voeld. Up in the icy mountains or under an ancient frozen lake, he was bound to find _better fucking friends_.

\---

Inevitably, he slips up.  

They’re hunched over the results of an extremely successful afternoon. An extremely harried former employee had slipped them her security access, lead them to a treasure trove of recordings and reports. It’s been hours, and the elation still sits deep in Kyle’s bones.   

“Another slice?” Kenny asks, nudging the box in the redhead’s direction. He shakes his head.

“I can’t eat any more.”

“There’s still like, half a pizza left.”  

“You should take it back with you. Karen would probably appreciate a snack after the hassle of this week’s issue.”

He doesn’t notice the silence straight away, too absorbed in the report he’s annotating. When he eventually glances over, he’s greeted with a pale face and wide, much-too-intense eyes, metallic fingers gripping the edge of the table with enough force to leave a dent.  
_Oh, fuck._  
In his haste, the little fact that Kenny didn’t know the extent of Kyle’s knowledge about his past - about his family - has slipped his mind.  
Until now, he has never felt unsafe in the cyborg’s presence. But in that moment, he is certain he is only one wrong word away from having Kenny’s hands around his throat.  
So naturally, he starts to babble.

“My little brother goes to the university on the other side of town. Ike. He’s five years younger than me, but he got admitted early, on accounts of being a genius. He’s got more classes than I can keep track of, and yet he’s in a club. The newspaper club of all things. He’s surprisingly passionate about it.”

He dares to pause for a quick swallow, lips darting to wet too-dry lips. With a sudden impulse, he grabs his personal tablet, swiping at the screen furiously until he finds a particular photo. With shaky hands, he presents it to Kenny.

“This is him.”

At first glance, it’s a perfectly ordinary picture of two brothers with their arms swung around each other, the dark haired one threatening to soon overtake his older brother in height.  
A second glance reveals more differences than similarities in the beaming faces. The most prominent being the blue tint to Ike’s skin, darkening into intricate patterns along his neck. The black bleeding into the sclera of his eyes, framing the bright amber of his oddly-shaped irises.   

Enough years have passed since the war between their races that Kyle carries no memories from it, and neither do his parents. But it hasn’t been long enough to pacify the tensions beyond fragile tolerance, to soothe the bitterness. Although possible, any cross-species adoptions were widely regarded as fulfilling some kind of saviour complex - or worse still, some sort of fetish.  
He can tell by the sharp intake of breath that Kenny realises the weight of his revelation. And despite the nausea that accompanies this, the _fear_ -  
It’s only fair this way.  
He knows about Karen. About Kevin. About Kenny’s parents, his home colony.  
It’s only fair Kenny knows this much about him - about his vulnerabilities - to place the two of them on equal ground.  

“My parents adopted him when I was two. I didn’t even consider the possibility of us not being related by blood.” He pauses to snort, lips pressed into a wry smile. “...which sounds kind of stupid now but...we grew up in the city. Everyone everywhere looked so different. Our parents never mentioned it or pointed it out. So I just assumed - hey, my brother is the blue-ish variety. The rare kind. A shiny human, if you will.”

That earns a snort, probably involuntary. It’s enough to spur him into continuing.  

“After he hit puberty, it got...strange. We lived in a mainly human-heavy settlement. We were just...concerned that one day, the reactions would turn from awkward to hostile. So we got him...a little help. Just until he masters his shifting powers and can alter his appearance by himself.”

Slowly, Kenny’s fingers trace over the screen. His fingers linger over Ike’s face before slipping to the medallion hanging from his neck. Kyle doesn’t need to confirm he’s found the device they gifted Ike on his thirteenth birthday.  
Belatedly, he thinks that Kenny can probably relate to having to hide parts of himself in public a little too well.

“Must be hard.” the blonde murmurs. He sounds exhausted.

“It is.” he agrees. In his lap, his fingers twist against each other anxiously. “He deals with it much better than I could.”

A hush falls over the room. The sense of danger has dissipated, leaving an unease behind that neither of them were keen to start addressing. He could taste beginnings of a migraine in the back of his throat, his brain already working furiously at potential solutions to potential ways this could all blow up in his face.  
He has no idea how Kenny deals with the constant possibility - the constant fear that someone might discover the connection between him and his siblings, and use that to hurt them.  
No wonder his face is so ashen, the skin on his fleshy palm littered with so many grooves from merciless fingernails.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen.” His voice is rawer than he’d like. A quick clear of his throat doesn’t help much. “I know what I want to happen, but there’s no predicting it at this point. But...no matter the outcome...no matter what happens between you and me, I promise you that no harm will come to your siblings.”  

There’s a sharp sound of metal scraping against wood before Kyle finds himself pinned down by Kenny’s gaze - pointed and intense enough to burn. He returns it with equal fervour, voice remaining strong.

“I know you might find that hard to believe, but I swear this.”

Long seconds pass before Kenny makes a move to blink. The slow attempt at a smile afterwards is shaky at best. A lot of unsaid sentiments hide in his eyes, in the dark circles smudged underneath them. But his words, whispered into the fragile silence of the room, are sincere.

“I believe you, Kyle.”  

\---

 

AN:

I had to cut this chapter into two, as it just kept growing, but we are finally getting somewhere. 

I can only apologise for the alien lobsters, but with [summoning/death animations like these](https://youtu.be/LprTn-hpwIQ?t=87), what else was I supposed to do? (I love those lobsters. Truly.)  
Just in case - [Alien Clyde](http://southparkphonedestroyer.wikia.com/wiki/Alien_Clyde) and [Space Warrior Token](http://southparkphonedestroyer.wikia.com/wiki/Space_Warrior_Token)!

Thank you again for all the wonderful comments, kudos and subscriptions - I truly appreciate them all <3


	5. Love's A Risk

_"This_ is where you wanted to bring me?!”

A few patrons aim startled looks in his direction, but Kyle couldn't care less, too busy gaping up at the sign. Next to him, his companion beams.

“Oh, you know the place then?”

“Who doesn't know the - that doesn't answer my question, Kenny! _Why are we at a strip club?!_ ”

The look the blonde gives him is equal parts amused and impatient. “It's a  _burlesque_ club, Kyle. There’s a difference.”

With the hour close approaching midnight and with his temple pulsing with the beginnings of a migraine, the bounty hunter could care less. Both meant deafening music, suffocating crowds with no sense of personal space and the stench of alcohol and vomit. Just as he opens his mouth to voice this, Kenny continues.    

“It's also home base for a mercenary who dabbles in hacking, and specialises in hard-to-obtain, risky information.”  

“...I haven't heard anything about that.” Kyle mutters, giving the neon letters above the entrance another glance.  

“It’s not public knowledge.” the cyborg reassures. He raises a hand to wave at the mountain of a security guard, who ushers them inside with an easy grin. “It’s only for those who are on good terms with the owners.”

-

It’s a lot more...classier than he expected.  
The music is loud, the bass making his stomach quiver with every step. Instead of pounding techno beats, crooning notes of an old classic about queer love pour through the speakers. The rooms are bathed in low purple light, smoke swirling around their ankles as they shoulder their way across the floor, already packed with guests in different stages of inebriation.   
Kenny seems to know his way around, though - barely pausing to check his surroundings as he dodges dancing patrons with ease. When Kyle falters, a hand grabs onto his wrist, tugging him flush against Kenny’s side.  (He steadfast ignores the way his skin goes from cold to damp with sweat in a matter of seconds.)  
Kyle swallows, a feeble attempt to ease his dry throat. An old feeling thrums through his body - a near-forgotten fear of getting caught in a place like this, holding a boy’s hand. It’s not something he’s felt since he was thirteen, and its presence in the depths of his bones is both confusing and annoying.

The blonde leads them past the stages and the bar, out to a mostly-empty corridor. At the end of it, Kyle can spy a few doors that no doubt lead to the dressing rooms. All of a sudden, a voice rings out behind them.

“Princess!”

There’s a flash of blonde curls, and suddenly Kenny finds himself with an armful of sparkly fabric and delighted giggles. He recovers quickly, returning the embrace with an easy grin.

“Good to see you too, Annie. You’re looking cute!”

The dancer preens at the compliment, pulling back to give Kenny a thorough glance-over. “It’s been ages, we missed you! Are you back for tonight?” Her eyes dart to the side, glinting at the sight of the redhead. “Oooh, did you bring us a new recruit? He’s _cute!_ ”

There is _way too much_ to take in. Kyle’s eyes bounce between the two of them rapidly, expression stuck awkwardly between inquisitive and embarrassed.

A laugh escapes the blonde, a little louder and more strained than expected. “No, unfortunately not - we’re here for another kind of business. Are the bosses in?”  
Annie cocks her head to the side, mouth twisting with disappointment. She picks up on Kenny’s sense of urgency nevertheless, motioning to the end of the corridor.

“They’re upstairs. The elevator code is the same as always - I’ll message them that you’re coming.”

Once behind polished titanium doors, correct buttons pressed, Kyle clears his throat.

“Sooo…” he says, drawing the word out leisurely. At the edge of his vision, he can see Kenny’s eye twitch. “You wanna tell me anything?”

“Not really.”

“Cool.”

-

The office is a minimalist masterpiece of gunmetal chrome and soft purple accents. Past the thick door, the thumping music fades out to a soft background buzz. Framed certificates populate the wall, all arranged around a big electronic screen. Slowly, it cycles through the articles written about the club throughout the years. There’s a sniper rifle next to the coat rack, propped up against the wall. The mahogany of the handle contrasts beautifully with the transparent glass body, giving a peek at the teal liquid ice contained within.     
Recognition tears through him with cold clarity. A name flashes through his mind -  right before her chair swivels around to reveal a very familiar face.  
He sees the shock flash through her face for a split second. But then she’s already smiling, chair scraping across the floor as she gets to her feet.

“Kenny - and Kyle! I didn’t expect to see you two together!”

Somehow, he manages to wrestle his expression under control.

“Wendy.” he replies, stepping forward to accept her hug. Quick and polite. “Small world, huh?”

He can feel Kenny’s gaze on him, curious and meddlesome, even when Wendy moves to embrace him next. He can’t help but note that their hug is very different - warm and lingering a touch too long.

“...I didn’t know you two knew each other.” the blonde remarks once seats and drinks have been offered, Wendy back behind her desk. She smiles, fingers brushing an imaginary speck of dust off her datapad.

“We go back a long time. We’re...childhood friends, of sorts?”

She’s being very generous. ‘Rivals-Turned-Awkward-Acquaintances’ would have been more accurate. But here she is - sweet, thoughtful, diplomatic - once again. Everything he could never manage to be.

Wendy Testaburger.  
Famed Ice Sniper of the Wastelands, the founder of the one of the most respected women’s shelters planetside. Apparently, also the owner of the capital’s famed burlesque club.  
Stan’s ex-girlfriend, the flame of his affections for the better part of ten years. Kyle’s bitter rival from middle school to the very end of graduation.

It’s not an easy feat to witness your closest friend stumble in and out of a relationship with the same girl for almost a decade - rehashing the same problems, caught up in the same mistakes over and over again. It’s near impossible to keep your opinions neutral after consoling your hysterically sobbing friend at stupid hours of the morning with alarming frequency. It’s hard to stay indifferent when said friend starts seeking reprieve at the bottom of a bottle. Even if you’re very much aware that the girl in question - like many other things - was just an excuse for self-destruction.

But Wendy became much more than just a shadow looming at the periphery of Stan’s every thought. She was a forest fire of charisma and determination, annoyingly intelligent and shamelessly outspoken. She had her eyes set on every prize an academic career had to offer.  
Exactly like Kyle.  
She was a permanent rival for the top spot in exam results, the final opponent for class representative and student council president. She was present in every debate, outfit sharp and arguments sharper.  
Worse still, people  _liked_ Wendy. Amassing support came effortlessly to her. Whether governed by pre-programmed pubescent reactions to an attractive girl or something else, she never seemed to have to _try_. Sometimes, the defeat and the resulting bitterness was more than his seventeen-year-old self - overwhelmed by expectations and near-crippled by isolation and self-sabotage - could take.

It got...better when they all parted ways for university, Wendy ending up in a completely different planet for the first two years. Their reunion at a house party was uncomfortable - but left them on a tentative ground of reconciliation.  
Secretly, Kyle admired the poise that surrounded her at every barbecue Butters threw in their tiny house. A home where she was surrounded by the presence of her former lover of a decade - blissfully happy in the arms of another in a way he never was with her. If it was him in Wendy’s position, he wasn’t sure he could manage the same sort of behaviour.

Just as Kyle reaches for his datapad, the door slides open.

“Look who decided to show his face!”

With the force of a small hurricane, and the grace of a warlord conquering a downtrodden nation, Bebe Stevens sweeps into the office. The scent of oil and gunpowder brushes against his nose as she marches across the room, taking her place on Wendy’s right.     
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the second owner was one of the city’s rare high profile cyborgs. With her bold blonde locks and knee-high boots, framed by shotguns and fuel wires, Bebe was a beloved topic of gossip and speculation. Unlike Kenny’s arm - a messy amalgamation of wires and crafted steel - Bebe’s robotic arm was more akin to a knight’s armour - sharp, sleek, terrifying. Every movement she made - whether a wave or clenching of fingers - carried a sharp glint of light and the promise of pain.  
Right away, Kenny is on his feet, eyes glittering and smile wide.

“Mistress Stevens!” he grins. His body dips in an exaggerated curtsy. “Every time I see you, you only look more stunning.”

“I know.” Bebe replies easily. With a move so perfect it must be practised, she slides her dark glasses off. The enhancements of her artificial irises glow red, even in the bright lights of the office.    

Kyle finds himself clearing his throat, his muscles unusually tense. With stiff movements, he tugs the datapad free, sending a tense nod Kenny’s way - who thankfully cottons on right away, launching into their well-practised, well-edited request. Wendy’s carefully professional expression cracks into a curious frown with every word.

“That certainly sounds...interesting.” she finally says. Behind her, Bebe frowns.

“Sure.” she agrees, hands sliding to rest on Wendy’s shoulders. “But my girl here - our dear CEO, cannot just drop everything she’s working on for an interesting request.”

Unperturbed, Kenny tilts his head. “Not even when it comes from such a handsome source?”

Kyle’s foot twitches with the desire to kick the cyborg in the shin, stilled in the last minute. Oblivious, Bebe laughs.  

“Tempting, but no.”

Kenny leans forward in his seat, smirk positively _filthy_. “I’m sure we can think of a few ways to sweeten the deal, Bebs.”

The blonde cackles, delighted. Even Wendy’s lips twitch at that. “Oh, I know it. We’re well aware of the places your smooth tongue gets you.”

Kenny’s grin grows, and Kyle has to suppress the urge to kick him yet again. He takes a deep breath instead.  
There is no need for kicks. It's all going well. Kenny is clearly winning them over. With just a little bit more honey, they’ll have something on their hands.  
The knowledge does nothing to help his mounting irritation.

“Promises aside, Bebe is right. I do have my hands full right now, and I cannot spare any time or resources.” Wendy admits, tone apologetic.

Kenny leans forward, arsenal clearly still full of suggestive bargaining chips. Before he can open his mouth, Kyle cuts in quickly.  

“Not even if it would lead to the public humiliation and almost guaranteed decline of Sheriff Cartman?”

As if flicking a switch, Wendy’s expression snaps from professional to _bloodthirsty_.  

“...Public humiliation?” she echoes.

“And guaranteed decline.” Kyle assures. He lets his own malice seep into his expression.

“Tell me everything you need. I will get it to you in twenty four hours.”

\-  

Kenny is taking his damn sweet time saying goodbye.

Biting back yet another irritated sigh, Kyle leans back against wall he’s been guarding for the past ten minutes. He resists the urge to do something stupidly passive aggressive, such as sending messages to the cyborg’s communicator, each just an annoyed emoji in the subject line.      
It’s five minutes past two in the morning. They have the deal finalised, with a guaranteed twenty-four hour deadline. He’s been up since seven, his toes a nonexistent numb mess inside his boots. All he wants to do is _collapse_. And yet, there Kenny stands, bright and chirpy, with his hand resting comfortably on the small of Bebe’s back as she makes him promise to visit again soon.  
Just wonderful.

When the cyborg finally joins him, a skip in his step and a heavy-looking bag swung over his shoulder, he cannot quite filter the irritation out of his voice.

“Are you done flirting?”

He receives a surprised look in response. Followed by _amusement._

“Whoa, relax! It’s all in good fun. They’ve been happily married since I’ve met them, and they know I’d never infringe on that.”

...oh.  
Oh.  
Well now he just feels like an asshole.  
Grunting in assent, he quickly turns his head to hide the embarrassment steadily creeping up his neck. So maybe Stan had a point when he accused him of not making much of an effort in keeping up with the lives of his friends.    
He sees Kenny tilt his head. Slowly, a shit-eating grin creeps onto his face.

“Goodness me, Agent Broflovski, are you _jealous?_ ”

The words are like a handful of ice cubes slipped past his collar, the tone and implication twisting at his gut uncomfortably.

“I just don’t think it’s professional.” Kyle huffs, resisting the urge to cross his arms. The grin only grows.

“On the contrary! It’s professional courtesy to make your colleagues’ day better by reminding them just hot they are.” the blonde counters cheerfully. “It’s unprofessional to leave a fine ass honey uncomplemented.”

“...I am way too fucking tired for this shit.” he groans. Behind his eyelids, his migraine cheerfully makes its presence known.  

A shoulder bumps against his own. Gently, a hand pats his back before winding around his upper arm, guiding him towards the exit.  
“Well don’t you worry. I think _you_ look _very_ handsome today too.” Kenny’s voice croons, lips almost pressing against his ear in an attempt to make himself heard over the loud music. “I’m a big fan of how that scarf brings out the colour of your eyes.”

-

He does _not_ think about that the next morning when he stumbles out of bed, picking out his clothes for the day. He definitely doesn’t waste a solid five minutes deciding between two scarves, both in different shades of orange.  
Kenny’s face  _does_ light up when he spots him, appraising him with a hum.

“Looking good, Agent! Good colour choice.”

Underneath the heavy press of his armour, his heart swells with a rush of warmth.

\---

Precise to the minute, their communicators beep with an encrypted message from an unknown address.  
There’s only a single sentence in the subject line.  
  
**_//Fuck him up.//_**

\---

“Seriously?”

The blonde glances up, cheek smeared with oil and eyebrows raised in question. His hands are buried elbow-deep in his hoverbike’s engine.

“What?”

“Did you just seriously call your bike ‘Ichigo’?”

“That's her nickname. The one on the official papers is Zelda.”

“You can't be serious.”

“Excuse you, she is a _princess_ , and I'll have you address her with the respect she deserves.”

“Princesses don’t have hentai tramp-stamps, Kenny!”

“So _fucking judgemental_.”

\---

“Fuck.”

Hands pausing mid-type, Kyle glances up just in time to catch Kenny’s pained expression, fingers clutching his shoulder. He tears his eyes away, abruptly resuming his typing.  

Kenny’s robotic enhancements and the discomfort they caused were...a delicate topic. Kyle had soon learnt that staring or questioning lead to a multitude of reactions - none of them positive. In the best case scenario, the blonde would brush off the enquiries with a shrug, or an assurance that it won’t get in the way of their work. Probably insist on carrying bags, crates and heavy objects to prove just how fine he was. In the worst case, concern would get misconstrued as pity. And if there was anything Kenny didn’t take kindly to, it was pity.    
Which basically left Kyle with the diverse options of ignoring his distress, or ignoring his distress whilst secretly messaging Butters a request to bully the cyborg into a checkup on the next available day. It was not ideal.

He understood where Kenny was coming from, he really did. After the conversations - tense, abrupt - he had resolved to keep a respectful distance. Their partnership was temporary, after all. Kenny would be out of his life in a matter of days, and so would the problem.  
But as the week crawled on, it became harder and harder to brush off each time.

-

“There’s a new programme I found that you might be interested in.”

Mouth full of coffee, Kenny hums his interest. Kyle licks his lips, quashing his nerves as he turns his screen towards the other.

Under a proud, blocky logo is a delicate line-drawing of a cybernetic arm, framing the landing page of the government scheme Kyle stumbled over the night before. He gives Kenny a few minutes to scan the text, clearing his throat when the silence stretches on a little too long.  

“It’s organised for people who don’t have the means to see private healthcare, or weren’t involved in any wars. So. You know. Most people with cybernetics.” His fingers flick across the screen, down to the section detailing the process. “From what I’ve read, they place a heavy emphasis on privacy. ”   

“...and where exactly are they getting the funding from?” the blonde asks. His voice is a lot less enthused than Kyle hypothesised it would be upon receiving the news. “Where do they get inventory from? Scavenging the factory trash for spare parts?”

“No - it’s a legitimate thing.” Kyle hurries to assure. “It’s government funded but ran entirely by volunteers. Doctors, specialist, retired nurses, ex-marines with cybernetics themselves.”

“...I don’t think this for me, Kyle.”

Kenny’s gaze is already averted. He takes a hurried sip, shoulders squaring. Tight.

It’s physically painful to look at him.

“...why not?” he asks before he can stop himself. “You could easily qualify. Your model is missing an essential component.”

Kenny’s lips twist. His grip tightens on his mug momentarily, gaze fixed just to the right of Kyle’s face. “It’s never that simple.”

“Maybe, but it’s worth a try!” the redhead insists, trying to keep his growing exasperation out of his voice. “It’s crazy to think you’d have to suffer unnecessarily when a solution exists!”

Bitterness flashes through Kenny’s eyes, dark and curdling, before he abruptly gets to his feet.

“It’s getting late.” he says. His tone is flat. “I need to be up at dawn to stake the warehouse out.”

Out of habit, Kyle’s eyes slide to his communicator’s display. It’s a little past 4 p.m., the sun outside still high and bright.

“...I’ll send over the data when I’m done going through it?” he manages, tongue suddenly heavy. He thinks his words are acknowledged with a nod before Kenny sweeps out of the room.

-

As promised, he sends the data through just as the sun starts to set.  
He receives only silence in reply.

-

 **//K1://** I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds, or hurt your feelings. I’ll be at the Public Records House until 2pm tomorrow, and then at Tweek’s for the rest of the day, if you wanted to go over the new evidence.

✔✔ 21.45

-

“Just you today?”

“Looks like.”

“Mmm. The usual?”

“...Please.”

-

“Okay, what’s up with you?”

Kyle glances up from his pasta, a single strand dangling precariously off his fork. “Huh?”

Ike’s frown deepens. “I’ve been going on for five minutes about how my classmate filed the last batch of articles, and you hadn’t said anything. Usually you’d be telling me to push him off a cliff for crimes against humanity by now.”  

“Ah - sorry. I was...I got distracted.”

His brother purses his lips. Then, carefully, he lays his fork down.

“...did you have a fight with your secret boyfriend?”

The waitress jumps in alarm three tables over at Kyle’s strangled, inhumane reaction.

“My _what?_ _!_ ”

“Look, I was going to wait until you told me by yourself, but you look like you swallowed a lemon. Whilst watching your puppy get run over.” Ike says, looking much too serious for the words coming out of his mouth. “It’s kinda freaking me out. Was he an asshole? Do you need me to get you baby scorpions to slip inside his shoes?”

“No! And why do you know where to get scorpions on a short notice?!”

“Focus, Kyle.”

“I don’t have a secret boyfriend!” he protests, remembering to lower his voice at the last moment. His brother’s expression shifts from concerned to annoyed.

“You’ve suddenly been busy every night of the week, but you haven’t taken up any new bounties. When I see you, you’re constantly on your communicator. You’re all preened up, _every time I see you -_ and have this secret little expression when you think people aren’t looking.”

For a long moment, all Kyle can do is blink, a deer caught in headlights.

Well _fuck._ What the hell was the appropriate response to that?  
_I don’t have a secret boyfriend. I’m planning to overthrow the Sheriff with a wanted criminal I’d been chasing up to a few days ago.  
_ He takes a deep breath. Counts to five. Makes a hasty decision.

“...he’s not a _boyfriend_.” he grits out. Slowly, he moves to pick his fork back up.

“Well, it’s only been like a week.” Ike nods. “So. Scorpions?”

“No! No, it’s...it’s nothing like that. We...had a...disagreement. Of sorts.” the redhead grimaces. His stomach churns unpleasantly, Kenny’s expression still fresh in his mind. “It was my fault. I pushed at a sensitive topic, even though I know he doesn’t like talking about it. That was two days ago. I haven’t seen him since.”

His brother winces, leaning forwards. “Wow. What did you ask about? Exes? Criminal record? If he was willing to convert to Judaism?”

“...all _excellent_ first-date questions.”

“Obviously. Have you forgotten everything Mom taught us?”

“I wish I could.” Kyle snorts. Out of habit, he glances around to ensure there are no eavesdroppers before hesitantly brings Ike up to speed.

It’s a little difficult, manoeuvring between the truth and the convenient lie. Ignoring just how upset this whole incident has made him is proving to be rather difficult too.  

-

Preoccupied with stirring more salt into his soup, it takes Kyle a good few minutes to notice that the seat next to him is no longer unoccupied.

Gloved fingers reach for the menu. With his hood up and mask covering his mouth, it’s difficult to discern his exact expression.  
They sit in silence. Then, Kenny’s impatient sigh cuts through it.

“When you were digging around in my life, just how much did you find out?”

His tone is clipped, just shy of being cold. Kyle tampers down his flaring irritation.   

“...all the stuff that’s on public record.” he replies. Carefully, he sets his spoon down. “...birth certificate, school papers. An incomplete, long list of employment history.”

“Welfare records?” Kenny practically sneers.

The redhead’s hands stop mid-motion.

“...I actually didn’t think to look there.” he confesses. “Once I confirmed that your parents still lived in the colony, I moved on to your former employers.”

That seems to take the blonde by surprise, halting the rant on the tip of his tongue. When he speaks again, the false jauntiness sets Kyle’s teeth on edge.

“...well. If you would have, you’d know that our income was piss-poor and almost nonexistent.” Cyan-blue eyes snap to meet his own, razor-sharp and daring him to make a comment. “I am not ashamed of my family. We made it _work._  No matter what’s on any sort of official record.”

Kyle badly wants to assure him that judgement is the last thing on his mind. Maybe, just maybe he wants to confess that it’s people like his father, the decorated, high profile lawyer with his rotten morality and ego-fuelled arrogance, that he thinks of as shameful. He wants to - but he only shakes his head rapidly, not wanting to make the conversation about himself.  
That seems to placate Kenny. He drops his gaze for a moment, shoulders slumping. Slowly, he extends his arm, letting the cyberized limb rest on the table.  

“This...was also a programme funded by the government, and carried out by volunteers.” he says, words almost too soft to hear. “Leading researchers and scientists on cybernetics. They were at the cusp of a breakthrough - so close to mainstream production.”

Kyle swallows, his stomach dipping uncomfortably. He has a fair idea of where this is going, and he hates all potential outcomes already.

“...so what happened?”

His companion tilts his head. The corner of his eyes crinkle.

“Well, what do you do when you’re at the stage of final testing?” he croons. His fingers flex. “You gather volunteers. You organise test trials. You go to small, backwater little colonies at the ass-end of the universe, and tell them all about the amazing things technology could provide for you. Reach in deep, drag out every daydream you ever had about being a superhero.” He pauses for a moment, eyes hazy with a memory. “I wasn’t particularly interested, but I wasn’t opposed either. And the payouts...that the volunteers received...were substantial.”

His words echo inside Kyle’s mind, the pieces slowly linking together into a clearer picture.

“...how old were you?”

“Probably not old enough.” the blonde answers with a shrug. “Of course, we all had to sign three novels’ worth of non-disclosure agreements, and disclaimers that we bore all responsibility of things potentially going tits-up. If our bodies were damaged during the procedure, we couldn’t sue them, or seek payouts from any government scheme.”

“W- _what?!_ But - but they gave you a model that’s missing an essential component!”

“I knew that they were working with prototypes. I guess I just got the shitty pick. I bet all the volunteers with surnames beginning with A got the good stuff. ”

Kyle grits his teeth. Nausea and something akin to terror swirls in his throat. “Okay, but - it’s on record that before inhibitors were fitted onto cybernetic limbs, every test subject’s body was completely overwhelmed by the strain! They all _died!”_

Instead of being horrified, Kenny just bursts into laughter. His shoulders shake with the force of it, not relenting even when Kyle’s elbows find their way against his ribs.

“What?” he hisses, agitation rising as Kenny just laughs harder. _“What?!”_

“Nothing - nothing.” he gasps out, finally finding his voice. “You’re just -  very well informed about all the gruesome details. Come on, give me some more sweet statistics about the mortality rates.”

“This is not funny, Kenny!” he snaps. “You’re walking around with technology that has caused the death of dozens of people - repeatedly!”

“Hey.” Suddenly, there’s a warm hand on his shoulder, Kenny’s voice soft and reassuring. “As you can see, I’m still here. Very much alive at this point. There has to be at least one lucky exception to everything.”

Slowly, he nods, forcing himself to breathe. As weak of an assurance that was, he didn’t want to incite yet another argument.  
The fingers on his shoulder twitch with hesitation before sliding down along his arm, coming to a rest just above his elbow.

“I’m sorry for blowing up at you. I...appreciate the intention - but as you can see, it’s a...sensitive topic for me.”  

“...I’m sorry too. I should know when to stop prying.”

The cyborg snorts, eyebrows arching cutely. “I’d pay to see that day.”

Kyle’s elbows find their way to skinny ribs once more, prompting Kenny to squirm in his seat in a very unattractive manner. Once they’ve both calmed down, Kyle decides to bite the bullet.

“I understand where you are coming from. I honestly do. But all that...my insistence was not coming from a place of pity. I just...don’t like the idea of you suffering if there’s a chance at making it better.”

Kenny’s gaze, dark and just a little too intense, send a dozen prickles along his skin, sharp and electric.  

“Careful now, Agent Broflovski. I’ll start thinking you care.”

-

They don’t talk about it again.  
But the next morning, Kenny sends a message noting that he’ll be late. Seconds later, Butters’ name pops up in his inbox, the subject line populated by a dozen smiling faces.

\---

“Okay, I _need_ to ask. What is the alarm for? That’s like the third time it went off this hour.”

Fingers gliding over the ‘Send’ button, Kyle meets Kenny’s expectant gaze.

“It’s a reminder for me to text my friend, and remind him not to propose to his boyfriend.”

Judging by the blonde’s expression, honesty was not the best approach.

“Stan has spent an _exorbitant_ amount of time and money planning an extremely personal and lovely proposal.” he explains, voice just a little defensive. “He _still_ needs to decide on the _ring_. I’m reminding him so that he doesn't let it all go to waste by blurting out a proposal in the middle of breakfast or something -  just because his boyfriend looked cute in his PJs.”

Kenny hums, rocking back on his chair. “Not the type for romantics, Agent Broflovski?”

_Ha. Hahahahaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Ha._

“I like romantics just fine.” he replies stiffly, fixing his gaze back on his tablet. _Understatement of the fucking century_. “I’ve just known Stan since we were kids. I know how much it would mean to him to do it exactly like he planned.”

“Sure. But some of the most romantic things are spontaneous. Off the cuff. You know? I bet his boy would be touched if he got proposed to over breakfast.”

“Yeah, but then all the imported sunflowers and the rodents will go to waste.”

Kenny stares at him. “...what does this proposal involve?”

“Three dozen space hamsters in balls, for one. All wearing tiny bow ties. Specific flowers imported all the way from Earth III, and a little three-man band playing their song just as they walk onto the bridge in this sweet little park. The same one where they had their first date.”

Blue eyes widen with every word, followed by a low whistle. “ _Damn_. Can _I_ marry Stan?”

“Get in line, McCormick.”

\---

“So, did you pick a date yet~?”

Clyde’s excited voice drifts over from the counter and Kyle resists the urge to lean into his butter knife.  
Great. Craig got his friends on board with this bullshit.  
(The number of photographs tacked behind the counter has now risen to four.)

“Nah. Didn't get a chance to pop the question in between all the schematics. He just gets so _into_ them, you know?”

Kenny is getting salt dumped in his drink at the next opportunity.  
There's a bored sigh, signalling the arrival of coffee and, unfortunately, Craig.

“Everyone knows binders and plotting gets Broflovski hot and bothered. Keep up, McCormick.”

\---

“I think you should ditch the cape.”

Kyle’s fingers pause above the holographic keyboard, tone echoing his confusion.

“What?”

“It's kind of a health hazard, isn't it? It makes you much more accident-prone.”

“....did you forget about the jetpack?” he feels inclined to ask, frown deepening. “It's kind of essential to hide it out of sight for the element of surprise.”

The blonde perks up, throwing an arm towards the ceiling.

“That's another thing - you've got all that fabric close to open flame! Recipe for disaster!“

“Highly fire-retardant fabric that has been specifically designed for this kind of use.”

Kenny opens his mouth, visibly struggling. He purses his lips a moment later.

“Well. It looks dumb.”

Kyle’s jaw drops open, betrayal flashing through him. “It does _not!_ ”

“It’s huge, bulky, covers everything. And it went out of fashion in the twenty-fourth century.”

“Capes are forever, you heathen! What’s your problem all of a sudden?!”

“It's a crime against humanity.” Kenny mutters. When Kyle follows his gaze, the blonde is glaring daggers at the clothing in question, draped over the back of a chair.  
The cape remains inconspicuously silent.

-

 **//Kyle://** Stan, does my cape look dumb?

 **//Stan://** wtf

 **//Stan://** no

 **//Stan://** it increases the badass factor by at least 10

 **//Kyle://** THANK YOU.

\---

“We should probably call it a night.”

A quick glance to the side confirms that it’s been two hours since he last sat down. His spine twinges painfully as he makes a move to stretch.  
He doesn’t feel tired at all. Excitement buzzes under his skin, tingling with the desire for _just one more paper, just one more debate, just one more sweet rush of figuring another step out together._ Watching Kenny gather his things up leaves him feeling restless, bones aching with something scarily close to disappointment. To  _longing._

The cyborg’s movements halt without warning, eyes flickering to the side. “So...what were you thinking for dinner?”

Kyle blinks owlishly, the question catching him off guard. “Uh - I was just going to grab some of the leftovers at home.”

There’s a scoff. And suddenly, there’s an unimpressed face dangerously close to his own.

“Kyle, do you think I'm an idiot?”

“Huh?”

“You disappoint me. I thought we were past the petty lies.”

“What are you going on about?!”

With a sigh, Kenny straightens his spine. He motions towards the door.

“Get your coat. We’re going to get dinner.”

“You don’t need to babysit me!” Kyle protests, holding his folder against his chest protectively. “I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself!”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” comes the blonde’s response, insultingly quick. “If I let you go now, you’re just going to go home and keep working there. And pass out around three a.m., and not get anything in you until we meet for coffee hours later.”

Startling accuracy aside, he does _not need to be called out like this._

Kenny takes his expression all in stride. “Come on.” he trills, reaching forwards as if he intends to tug on Kyle’s sleeve. “Humour me. Just for a little longer?”

There’s something about his face - past the fluttering eyelashes and the grin meant to annoy him - that latches onto Kyle’s heart, halting the protest on his tongue. Grudgingly, he heaves a heavy sigh.

“...I don’t feel like dealing with Craig tonight.”

Cyan eyes light up, hands already grabbing the strap of Kyle’s bag.

“I’ve got just the place in mind.”

-

They take Kenny’s deathtrap there - _a delicate, perfect princess in vehicular form_ , he was meticulously reminded - because of course they do.  
Somewhere above the slums, as Kenny’s hands twist the handles for a boost, Kyle’s arms slide around his waist.  
They remain there, in a secure hold, until the end of the journey.

-

Kenny’s chosen restaurant is on a rooftop, nestled in the middle of a concrete jungle of twenty-storey buildings. About a dozen rickety tables are scattered across yellow-painted bricks, surrounded by an aggressive number of potted plants. As they take their seats, half a dozen tiny candles flicker alight in the middle of their table. Kyle makes a note to sneak in a picture when Kenny is not looking.

“This is nice.” he comments, glancing around.

“We come here with my brother when he’s in town.” the blonde says, draping his parka over the back of his seat with practised ease. “It’s the only place in the city where they make chilli _properly._ ”

Kyle snorts, unable to keep his teasing tone at bay. “And what’s a _proper_ chilli like?”

“Spicy enough to make the trip to the bathroom awkward the next morning.” Kenny replies. “Delicious and redneck approved.”

“That does not sound appetising.”

“It does to a simple colony boy.” Kenny says, smile just a little too tender. “It’s kind of like being back home. Without. You know. The days of travel, and being transported about a century back in morals and way of life.”

“Do you miss it?” Kyle finds himself asking, voice dropping to a whisper. As if he was asking Kenny to confess a secret in the middle of a sleepover. The blonde takes his time in answering, voice matching his in volume.

“...Sometimes.” He hesitates, teeth grazing his lower lip. In the flickering, orange light of the candles, the shadows under his eyes cast twin dark canyons across his face. “It’s...better for me this way. Knowing that helps sometimes.”

His heart thuds against his ribcage, just shy of painful. His fingers twitch with the sudden urge to reach across the table.

“...I think I know what you mean.”

-

Chilli is not the only dish the restaurant excels in, much to Kyle’s relief. The food is plentiful and well seasoned - a far cry from the sad contents of his fridge at home. Somewhere along the way, a bottle of wine ends up on the table.  
His exhausted body welcomes the alcohol with unbidden enthusiasm, the world appearing much softer around the edges after only two glasses. He feels his mouth tugging into a smile every few seconds, head pleasantly light.  

“You look happy.” Kenny states. He sounds rather pleased with his observation.

“This was fun.” Kyle murmurs in response. He decides he really likes the sound of Kenny’s laugh.  

“Good. You deserve it.” he says, like it’s the easiest, most obvious thing in the world. “I hope you got space saved for dessert - there’s this thing here called a banoffi pie that used to be crazy popular back on Earth.” He raises a hand before Kyle has a chance to shoot him an alarmed look. “And don’t worry - I told him to keep any bananas far away, just for you.”  
  
And that’s when underneath the twinkling stars, skin warm and the taste of fresh basil lingering on his tongue, Kyle realises he is really, _really_ fucked.

\---

 

AN:

My apologies for taking so long getting this chapter out! I made the foolish and ambitious decision [to participate in K2 Week](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1082901) \- which was  _loads_ of fun but left me exhausted and slightly broken. Nevertheless, I urge you all to check out [all the fantastic works from the event](https://k2-week.tumblr.com/)! And whilst you're on Tumblr, [hit me up :)](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lwtis)

The Bonding Is Complete, and we have just gone straight to Pining. It was a lot of fun getting to finally write smitten Kyle.   
For reference - [Ice Sniper Wendy](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/southparkphonedestroyer/images/a/ad/Wendyscicard.png/revision/latest?cb=20171123110201) and [Robo Bebe](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/southparkphonedestroyer/images/1/1a/Bebescicard.png/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/310?cb=20171218213352), who were both a joy to write, and honestly deserve a little spin-off chapter of their own. Also, my pretentious chapter titles are from [Old Yellow Bricks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NgLWF2XJyKA&index=11&list=PLEbyOkhs62_0SJv1wZd9WNALOLRyp7pME), which is the song I usually have on repeat whilst writing this.   

Thank you to all the new subscribers, and to anyone who has left kudos and comments! We're almost at the end - thank you so much for sticking with me <3


	6. Dorothy Was Right Though

“I bet I can guess what your favourite movie was growing up.”

Kyle drags his gaze away from the fuse box just long enough to spare Kenny’s grin a glance. “...If this is another ‘no wonder you're good at handling tools’ joke, I'm pushing you off this billboard.”

The cyborg throws his hands up with glee, looking much too relaxed for someone perched fourteen feet above the ground with absolutely no safety measures in place. “Just like the boys in the movies!”

Kyle bites his tongue, the order for Kenny to hold onto _something_ contained in his throat the last second. With no little difficulty, he turns his attention back to the tangle of wires.

The hour is just shy of midnight, clear and chilly. Far beneath them, the traffic swarms relentlessly, like a herd of mechanised fireflies. To the stray eye, they're two underpaid, unfortunate engineers doing maintenance work. Nothing about battered helmets and fluorescent jackets hinted at ‘setting up the stage for a very exclusive screening of Sheriff Cartman's dirty laundry’.  
The billboard they're hacking towers opposite the main grounds, perfectly positioned. Courtesy of Wendy, the few security cameras aimed in their direction have already been taken care of.

_“And you just assume we both know how to hack a digital billboard?” Kyle had questioned._

_The stare he receives pierces him down to his core, dredging up a very primal sort of fear. He cannot shake his head fast enough._

_“Thank you Wendy! We'll keep you updated!”_

The LED display flickers, prickling at his eyes unpleasantly, reminding him once again of just how little he had slept. In his hand, the data pad beeps as the encryption programme boots up.  

His mother had called just as they were loading the equipment up on the back of Kenny’s cruiser. Having postponed calling her back for several days in a row, answering her was inevitable. Kenny was polite enough to retreat back to the garage with a sudden interest in finding a screwdriver - just far enough for the illusion of privacy. He wasn’t courteous enough to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping though, lips tugged into a much-too-interested grin once goodbyes have been said.  

“Is that a nickname that she called you, or a secret middle name?”

“Oh, don’t you start.” Kyle grumbles. He secures the last bag onto the cruiser with more force than necessary. Already, he is steeling himself for the usual cascade of ignorant observations - _wow, your mother is really pushy, isn’t she? She still calls you that at your age? I could hear her all the way from the doors, she is really loud, isn’t she, I can see where you get your annoying tendencies from -_  

There’s a quiet hum as Kenny tips his head to the side, grin soft.

“She obviously cares about you a lot.” he says, fondness lurking in his tone. “Don't leave her hanging for days next time.”

He turns to nudge a shaky spring back into place with his foot, turning just in time to miss Kyle’s flabbergasted expression. Quickly recovering, he laughs.

“Wow. It took her five minutes to convert you to her cause. She'd adore you.”

(The thought sticks, and lurks in his head through the day.)

The programme is at 23% completion when Kenny scoots closer. The sound of creaking metal accompanies his movements.

“It’s _Empire Strikes Back_ , isn’t it?”

An ugly snort escapes him. “Nope.”

“The original _Blade Runner._ ”

“Not even close.”

_“The Good, the Bad and the Ugly?”_

“How old do you think I am?!” Kyle snaps. He gets a brilliant, crooked grin in response. “We’re the same age!”

“And there’s nothin’ wrong with appreciating the classics, Agent.” the blonde replies easily, ignoring the outburst. “ _Domino_ , then?”

Kyle’s eyes narrows as realisation dawns on him. “...You’re just reciting a top ten list with bounty hunters in them.”

“Am I on the right track?” Kenny asks, fluttering his eyelashes. Kyle's stomach twists in tandem.

“I actually liked fantasy best as a kid.” he confesses. He drums his fingers along the edge of the datapad, eyes fixed on the screen. 35%. “And superhero movies.”

“Ooooh!” Kenny coos, eyes sparkling. “A nerd!”

There’s a certain amount of petty satisfaction when his scrunched-up sandwich wrapper smacks against the cyborg’s forehead, prompting a squawk. It earns him exactly three seconds of respite.

“I bet you were the cute kind of kid who had a blanket-cape and stood atop staircases and bunk beds!”

He is entirely correct, and Kyle briefly entertains the idea of pushing him.

“Where did this come from?” he asks instead, swiping a fingers across the screen in an attempt to get it to work faster. The numbers stay stubbornly unchanged.

Kenny shrugs. “You strike me as someone who would be very stubborn about making a childhood dream happen.” he says. He rocks in his seat, tipping back far enough to prompt the hunter to suck in a sharp breath. “So I thought it’d be an easy guess.”

Kyle grabs onto his arm before he can stop himself, tugging the other back  to safety. He pointedly ignores whatever reaction flashes across Kenny’s face in favour of checking the datapad again. “I wanted to be a lot of things as a kid. Rockstar, entrepreneur, detective. An Elf King. For the longest time, I was dead set on having a dry-cleaning business.”

That earns him a giggle, delighted. He feels his lips twitch in response.

“I guess the longest-standing goal I entertained was one of a lawyer. My dad was...is one, and it was just so...cool.” he says. “Defending innocent people and bringing criminals to justice? I thought what he did was amazing.”

There’s a hum in response. “The briefcases and sharp suits are a nice perk too.”

“Definitely.” Kyle concedes. The warmth that’s been slowly flickering in his chest is suddenly doused by a rush of cold resentment. “And then I grew up, and the thought of binding myself into a single office straight out of university when there were whole galaxies out there became less and less appealing.” His fingers twitch, nails briefly sinking into his palm. “I also learnt all about corrupt lawyers who take bribes and obfuscate evidence for the sake of a good client.”   

The words taste bitter on his tongue, even after all these years, and feel like an admission of defeat. The bounty-hunting career was his own decision, a compromise between fresh feelings of betrayal and the deep-seated yearning for _doing the right thing_. It is a decision he doesn’t regret, and has worked hard for. And yet - and yet.  
Unbidden, Kenny’s words from the week before echo in his ear, dragging the dread and paralysis along with them.    
_Is it naivete that has you convinced you're righteous? Or is it stupidity?”_

Back in reality, Kenny just shifts closer until their shoulders bump together.  

“You know, it’s still not too late if you want to go down the fantasy route.” There’s a gentle sort of reassurance lurking in his voice, buried under the artificial nonchalance. “I have a few contacts who could help you become an Elf King.”

Kyle’s laugh is an ugly thing, a nasally snort and a chuckle reminiscent of a witch in a third-grade play. It does nothing to diminish the satisfaction radiating off Kenny as he watches on.

They stay like that for a long moment. Kyle thinks he can feel the warmth of Kenny’s body through all the impossible layers of clothing. A gust of wind rushes through, prompting the billboard to sway gently, tousling their hair into messy knots. Under their feet, someone leans on their horn for a furious four seconds. The number of the screen flickers into 90%.

“This is the part where you try and guess my favourite movie growing up.”

“ _Backdoor Sluts 9_.”

“How did you know?!”

-

The stage was set.  
Thirty six hours remain.

-

The tip-off arrives just in the nick of time. Just as Kyle receives the confirmation that Kenny is heading for the new meet-up point, the screen in the display window opposite him flashes up a very-familiar-looking Wanted Poster. The numbers underneath the cyborg’s picture flash enticingly, the sum much bigger than what Kyle was initially offered.    
_Ugh_. Trust Cartman to keep his eggs in a dozen different baskets all at once.

“He’s getting impatient.” he says an hour later. He has to raise his voice a little to make himself heard above the noise. From the looks of it, the little diner at the edge of the slums is the regular haunt of every single trader in a fifty-mile radius. For some reason, each one of them wore the exact same hat, just in various different colours.   

“Dammit.” Kenny sighs, rubbing a frustrated hand along the back of his neck. “Just when I promised Karen I’ll take her out to that barbecue place too.”

“...Isn’t that until the weekend?” Kyle questions. Belatedly, he hopes Kenny doesn’t question how he remembers such a mundane detail. “You can still take her. You’ll be a cleared man by then.”

The response is a soft hum, accompanied by a small, nervous twitch of an eye. It makes him pause.

“...what’s that look for?”

Kenny’s gaze snaps up to meet his, wide and blue. “Nothing! Nothing.”

The bounty hunter’s eyes narrow, scrutiny intensifying. “...you don’t think we’ll succeed.”

The blonde flinches. Kyle thinks he sees a flash of guilt across his eyes. “No! It’s not - of course I think we’ll succeed!”

“Then what’s with that face?”

Kenny squirms, clearly uncomfortable. Gloved hands move to tug at the mask obscuring his features in a vain attempt at hiding further behind it. “...I just don’t think they’ll grant me a full pardon that easily.”

Kyle stares, fingers frozen mid-motion. “...you were framed by a corrupt politician!”

“Sure. But in the best-case scenario, I’m still an unregistered cyborg who was involved in ‘vigilantism’.”

“Okay but - the vigilantism was done in the name of uncovering corruption! You didn’t kill anyone, and it wasn’t for personal profit - they have to take that into account!”

“Cartman has resources. People who can dig up plenty of blackmail against me. God knows there is enough to pick and choose from.” He sounds rather morose. Like he’d already debated his way around the topic, and had decided that defeat was the only possible outcome.

Before Kyle can reply, Kenny lets out a rather theatrical sigh, straightening his spine with an auspicious crack. “That’s my problem, though. It’s not something you have to worry yourself about, really.”

He cannot help but bristle at that. “Of course it is.”

“It’s my own mess. I made it, I’ll get myself out of it.”

“Being framed by a figure of authority in an attempt to prevent his corruption from being exposed is not exactly all ‘your own mess’, Kenny.”

“Eh. That’s life, isn’t it?” The other shrugs, like gut-wrenching injustices were just another inconvenience adults had to grudgingly accept. He reaches to scroll through the datapad on the table. “But like I said, don’t worry about that. You’re a busy guy. You’ve no doubt got a trip or two booked off-planet already.” The corner of his eyes crinkle, focus on the screen strangely intense. “M’sure you’re excited to get out of here and stop slummin’ it.”

The waitress arrives that moment, perky and bright despite the crowd. Kenny turns to ask her about the soup of the day, just in time to miss the frown Kyle aims his way.  
This has been a recurring….thing now. Throwaway sentences that stuck with him, like shards of glass embedded stubbornly in the soles of his foot. All carrying the same sentiment.

He so badly wants to retort with facts Kenny certainly already knows:

_I hardly had to reschedule anything in order to spend almost every waking hour of the past week and a half with you, you are exactly aware of how busy I am._

_I’m not a delicate little flower, I’m not slumming it._

_I want this to be my problem, too. It already is._

It’s a reoccurring thing and it’s making Kyle angry.  
Because ever since waking up with a red-wine-hangover and a selection of blurry photos he doesn't recall taking, he had been trying to figure out how to ask Kenny back out for dinner.  
But it seems like the moment he finally decided to stop ignoring his budding attachment, the cyborg decided to slam both feet on the breaks and backpedal. The chemistry between them remained, with all its crackling intensity, but it was peppered with a lot more self-deprecation from Kenny’s end than he was strictly comfortable with. In paranoid moments, Kyle could swear the cyborg was trying to deliberately sabotage the rapport they had painstakingly carved out along the way. Giving Kyle all the opportunities to dismiss this whole adventure as some unplanned inconvenience, soon forgotten.  
(It’s like he doesn’t even know how much of a whirlwind his presence had been in his life, uprooting years’ worth of bad habits and stale opinions.)

Initially, he had feared potential rejection. Now he is scared the minute Cartman was in police custody, Kenny will vanish into thin air, unattainable and out of reach once more.

It's enough to kick his mind into overdrive when he’s lying in his bed, staring at his ceiling and plagued by the knowledge he needs to sleep. It lingers at the edge of his thoughts, crawling stage-front whenever given the opportunity - what was the best approach? Was he just desperate? Was this just another instance of wistful thinking, doomed for failure?  
He has read much too many statistics on the topic ever since he was young, and has enough bitter disappointments under his belt to make him hesitate. Relationships are hard. Relationships that involve him - his temper, his lifestyle, his multitude of vices - are complicated, to say the least.

Maybe he’s been reading the whole situation wrong. Kenny does have a perchance of flirting with anything sentient, race or gender aside. He grants ridiculous favours without thinking, gladly sacrificing his own time and energy to make others happy. Perhaps this is just the extension of this goodwill - his reaction upon seeing just how boring and pathetic Kyle’s life was beyond his work.  
Maybe he should just play along. Allow the events to play out like planned. Enjoy it while it lasts. Savour it, and say goodbye with his dignity intact.  

But even entertaining theoretics _hurts_. His convictions stutter and inevitably shatter, overridden by pure and overwhelming _want._  
He might lead a boring and underwhelming life in comparison to the cyborg, but he still wants to be the continuing recipient of Kenny’s attention. Of his curiosity, his teasing. His smiles.  
He might not deserve it but God does he want it.

A thousand miles away, the waitress giggles as she takes Kenny’s order.

“I have never heard this combination of vegetables in my life before - I can’t wait to try it.” the blonde remarks, excitement palpable. His gaze flicks to Kyle expectantly. “What do you want?”

_I want to watch your face at Karen's graduation._

_I want to get the chance to fuss over you if you get sick, to make you chicken soup and make sure you finally get the damn rest you need._

_I want to continue arguing about the safety schematics of your sorry excuse of a hoverbike every time we have to travel somewhere. I want to fly across the city holding onto your waist, not caring if my coat is thick enough or not to hide just how fast my heart is beating._

_I want to touch the enhancements along your jaw, to find out just how cold it is against human skin. I want to see the exact spot where flesh turns mechanical on your shoulders._

_I want the chance to wake up next to you._

The silence stretches long enough for Kenny’s expression to morph into one of concern. A hand reaches across the table to nudge his own. “...Kyle?”

With what seems like monumental effort, he swallows past the lump in his throat and smiles.

“Soup sounds good.”

\---

Twenty seven hours to go.

\---

“You know, it’s kinda sad seeing you by yourself these days.”

Kyle resists the urge to take a leaf out of Craig’s own book and flip him off. He just rolls his eyes instead. “We’re being efficient by splitting up, if you _must_ know.”

(It’s bad enough to feel the sentiment, he doesn’t need people pointing it out.)

Craig doesn't grace him with an actual reply. He just continues wiping down the counter, lips pulled into a smirk. As he reaches to retrieve Kyle's empty cup, his sleeve rides up. The hunter's gaze flickers down just in time to catch the twin scars across Craig’s wrist - a permanent, unwanted souvenir from his captivity.

Unbidden, the memory rushes him - the rush of wind, the easy pressure of the trigger. The shock plastered across Kenny’s face before he crumples to the ground.  
He just about manages to suppress the sound of his distress. Underneath the table, his nails dig into the fabric of his jeans, eyes drifting back to the former marine.

The pair never disclosed the exact details of Craig’s captivity, or the events that led up to their eventual partnership and whirlwind romance. There were speculations, plenty - and events hidden in actions and snippets shared. In Tweek's admissions of sleepless nights, and Craig's absence in the shop on particularly noisy nights. In Tweek's tendencies to let his gaze linger on the weapons mounted on the wall, eyes glazed over with something akin to guilty nostalgia.

“Hey. Craig.” he calls out before he can change his mind, grateful for the lack of customers. “Does...the...way in which you two...met...ever come up in conversation?”

The hand clutching the rag pauses for a second. Dark brows dip a fraction in contemplation. “...Occasionally.”

“In...fights?”

Craig’s frown deepens, lips twisting. Just as the silence morphs from awkward to agonising, he sighs.

“Nah.” he says.. The rag is folded into a neat square before it's abandoned on the side. “It came up a few times during our first year in the city. Mostly after storms. Nightmares.” His teeth sink into his lower lip as he reaches for a mug to dry. “And once, during an argument.”

Kyle leans forwards, holding his breath. Craig is too distracted to make fun of him for it.

“Three broken windows, two fractured noses and a ridiculous amount of tears later, we agreed it was an unfair and unconstructive thing to bring up. And throw around. So we haven’t.”  

“...and you can still...trust him wholeheartedly? After knowing he’s capable of doing something like that to you?”

“If I couldn't, we would have never made it out.” Craig says, as if it’s something obvious. Dry porcelain finds purchase on the counter with a soft clink before he reaches for another.  

Absently, Kyle nods. As reassuring as Craig's confidence is, he's still not entirely convinced. His emotions must flicker through, as it prompts the other to huff.

“Do me a favour and don't ask me if I ‘could ever forgive him’, or shit like that.” Craig says, voice back to its monotone drone. “No matter how or when, I trust Tweek to have my back when shit hits the fan. And that's all I need to make it work.”

 ---

Twenty hours remain.

\---

“So are you and still-secret-not-boyfriend good now?”

Kyle is getting really damn tired of choking on his drink.

His brother watches him wheeze with amusement, not lifting a single finger to help him find any tissues.   

“...just fine.” he manages after some contemplation, dabbing his chin dry.  

Ike nods, looking much-too satisfied. “Good.”

“Where's all this concern coming from? Has Mom roped you into one of her campaigns again?”

“This might come as a shock, Kyle, but me and Mom don't spend all our time talking about you.” Ike snipes. He avoids the soggy napkin aimed in his direction with ease. “There's just...a girl in my newspaper club that's been keen on setting you up with her older brother. I tried to tell her that I really didn’t want to get involved, and it wasn’t a good...Kyle?”

Despite his best efforts, he cannot offer a good explanation as to why he just bursts into near-hysterical laughter.

\---

Ten hours left.

\---

 **//K1://** Just finalised the footage. The details have been sent out to everyone. Got the appointment set up - it’s all ready to go.

 **//K2://** ur amazing :D :D now go 2 sleep!!! Need 2 look fresh 4 all the cameras 2morro ;D

 **//K1://** I can send it over to you if you want to have a look too.  

 **//K2://** nw. If ur happy with it, I trust u.

\---

 When Kyle lands his cruiser on the roof the next morning, at 9 am sharp, he can’t help but indulge in a moment of nostalgia.  
Here he was again, manoeuvring his ship into the same parking space after droning the same request into the crackling microphone, with the same passenger in tow.  
Except this time, the cyborg is very much awake when Kyle slides the cuffs over his wrists, cyan eyes gleaming before delivering a saucy wink.

“Ready, Agent?”

The muffled roar of a distant crowd seeps through the walls of the cruiser. On the other side of the roof, the Sheriff and a small army are waiting for them.

“Let’s do this.”

-

“It’s about damn fucking _time_ , Kahl.”

The sheer smugness radiating off Cartman is intense enough to power a small country. Kyle is surprised he didn’t request to be wheeled out in a fancy chair whilst he gleefully pets a cat.  
On his left, Kenny glowers, tugging against Kyle’s hold. As per their script, he only tightens his grip until he hears a pained grunt.

“Well, here I am.” he replies, resisting the urge to match the Sheriff’s smugness. “One cyborg and the details of his co-conspirators. As promised.”

Cartman nods, raising a hand as he steps closer. The guards make a move for the prisoner, halting when Kyle throws an arm in front of Kenny.  

“I don’t trust your guards.” he declares, casting a look of cool suspicion over them. With a hurried movement, he crowds close enough to Cartman to drop his voice into a whisper. “They let him slip loose last time. I’m pretty sure the smuggling ring has paid off at least of a few of them.”

He can practically see the cogs turn in Cartman’s head as beady eyes widen, thoughts turning to treachery all-too-easily.  

“You three, stay here. The rest of you, cover the rest of the exits.” the Sheriff finally barks, tone bearing no argument.  

Amidst the noise and the dozens of shifting bodies, Kyle’s hands slide to loosen the cuffs.

Cartman leads them down the narrow stairs and through a complicated maze of unnecessarily glitzy rooms, no doubt wanting to rub it all in his captive’s face. Eventually, a very familiar corridor comes into sight, the doors leading to the courtyard gleaming in the distance. The whole while, Kyle takes care not to meet Kenny’s eyes.

“So! We finally meet again.” Cartman’s smug voice cuts through the silence, gaze fixed on Kenny’s face. “You thought you could run away from my authority, huh?”    

The blonde doesn’t dignify that with an answer. However, his scowl deepens into a sneer, much to the Sheriff’s delight.

“I thought it’d be fun to make a day out of it, as we’re all here!” he announces with a clap of his hands. “I called up the good citizens of the city together, and the last time I checked, there was a _sweet_ crowd.” His grin stretches even further, eyes glinting with excitement. “Thought it’d be a nice opportunity for everyone to take a long, good look at the criminal who’s been injuring their public servants and causing frivolous damage at the expense of their hard-earned tax money!”

Kyle’s composure slips at, dragging his mask with it. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Something on your mind, Kahl?”

“Oh, I’ve got _many_ things on my mind, Cartman.” he says, his tone absurdly cheerful. “The biggest one being - did you _really_ think I wasn’t going to find out?”

There’s a beat when their footsteps stutter, coming to a stop just before the courtyard doors. A moment of stillness, save for the furious hammering of his heart in his throat.  

Cartman’s voice is careful, despite its ear-splitting tone of offence. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“He knows, _Sheriff._ ” Kenny’s voice rings out for the first time. The fraction of a second before Cartman turns to face him is enough for him to shrug the cuffs off, bounding just out of his reach. “He knows all about your little game.”

Kyle never thought he would ever associate beauty with Cartman - but the sight of the other’s face turning near-purple as the realisation sets in truly is beautiful.  

When the Sheriff finds his voice, it’s an ugly, furious snarl. “You turning traitor for the first criminal scum with blonde hair and a slutty smile, Kahl?!” he sneers, eyes narrow slits of rage. “Is it really all that takes?”

“You’re the only scum and traitor I can see here, fatass!” Kyle snaps back. His body trembles with all the adrenaline he no longer has to suppress. “Taking advantage of people who are barely getting by, and for what?!”  

“I created jobs, didn't I?” Cartman shouts, spreading his arms wide. “Those mines just stood there, chock full of profit, and we were just supposed to leave them there? Because there was a little leak and some of the rocks crumbled if you stomped on them too hard?”

Kenny’s voice is barely a growl, almost inhumane in its cold ferocity. “You baited desperate people into working in a _death trap!"_

“People knew what they were signing up for.” Cartman points out with infuriating righteousness, voice a sneer. “It’s all there in the contract. That’s how this _works."_

“It’s over.” Kyle cuts in, gut quenching with disgust. He takes a step forward, hands sliding under his cloak to reach for his gun. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Kenny shadow his movements. “Surrender now, and save yourself the embarrassment.”

They only get a sneer as warning before there’s a flurry of movement, followed by the sharp cracks of a gunshot. Kyle barely has time to leap to the side before Cartman is shooting at them again, both hands clutching guns and flailing with a lethal sort of desperation. A sudden stab of pain in his right arm throws him off balance, prompting him to stumble with a pained gasp.    

“That’s _cute._ ” he hears Cartman sneer over the sound of his own thunderous heartbeat. “But the world doesn’t work the way you imagine it in your poor, deluded ginger head before going to sleep, Kahl!”

With great effort, Kyle staggers to his feet, hand clamped over his injured, useless arm. Three feet away from him, Kenny stands, immobilised, with Cartman’s gun pointed straight at him.

“You wanna topple me? Huh? You wanna test my authority?” the Sheriff sneers, grin back on his face with a slight maniacal twist. “Just fucking try. Bigger people have tried and they all crashed and _burnt_.” He waves the gun held in Kenny’s direction, glare promising pain. “I'm going to _bury_ you so deep that you'll never see the light of day again. And _you_ \- “  
Slowly, dramatically, he points his second gun straight at the bounty hunter. “By the time I'm done with you, you'll be a laughingstock! No one will take you seriously - no one will believe you!”

And that’s when the door swings open.

The sudden flood of light leaves Kyle squinting, momentarily disoriented. His vision clears up just in time to witness the climax of the movie playing on the billboard towering over the courtyard, the footage crisp and neatly subtitled for complete coherence. On the meticulously set-up stage, with the crowd hanging onto her every word, the last speaker finishes her speech. Her hands tremble as she struggles with the mike, the chemical burns across her skin painfully striking.  
And right by the side of the stage, taking notes at a furious pace, is four men clad in immaculate navy suits, with identical silver badges pinned to their chests.  
Inter-system police. With jurisdiction Cartman could only dream of.     
They scale the courtyard faster than the Sheriff can lower his guns. The eldest officer is already tugging a warrant out of his pocket as Kyle leans into Cartman’s space, voice a whisper.

“Oh, I think they might have a few reasons to believe me.”

“Agent Broflovski?” comes a gruff voice before Cartman can reply. At the confirmation, he sends a sharp nod towards his colleagues, who crowd around the enraged Sheriff without hesitation. “Sheriff Cartman. In the face of overwhelming amounts of evidence, you are under arrest for blackmail, extortion, tax fraud, as well as blatant disregard for your people’s safety and wellbeing. You have the right to - “  

“Fuck you! They’re lies - all lies!” comes the shrill screech, Shoving at the hands of the officers, Cartman’s hands claw in Kyle’s direction. “You - you fucking, connvining little - “

To his left, Kenny draws in a sharp breath at the tirade of insults that spill out from Cartman’s mouth. Kyle stares at the other impassively through it all, tilting his head in an officer’s direction when Cartman pauses to take a breath.  

“As per the Intergalactic Declaration of Sentient Rights, I would like to additionally press charges for hate speech and public discrimination based on faith.”

-

The next few hours are a blur.

They’re both rushed outside the complex, ushered into the medical van parked alongside the police cruisers. Once their wounds have been sufficiently swabbed and fussed over, there are questions to answer and statements to take. Stories need to be told over and over again, first together, than separately. There are _forms_ . (Kyle can’t imagine how long the process would have lasted if the police _hadn’t_ already received their detailed files the night before.)

“That’s the last form, boys.” Sergeant Yates declares once Kyle taps on the screen, saving his signature. His satisfaction soon gives way to grimness.  

“Unfortunately, there’s another issue still. Mr. McCormick’s involvements are well-documented, and very much fall under vigilantism.”

He can see Kenny’s shoulders stiffen without having to turn his head. He has to fight the urge to reach over and search for his hand.

“The laws regarding vigilantism are rather strict in this city.” Yates continues. “Even with the circumstances, you’re looking at extended prison sentence.”

“Actually, sir.” Kyle cuts in, leaning forwards just as Kenny opens his mouth. He hurriedly wets his lips as they both turn to stare at him. “The crimes you reference - the injury of the corrupt guards and the property damage - didn’t take place inside the city.” He motions to the map, pushed to the edge of the table earlier. “The mines are located outside the city. Therefore, the jurisdictions do not apply.”

The Sergeant blinks at him, brows dipping into a frown. “...I’m pretty sure that’s not how - “

“I had it checked. Sir. It is. And anything that’s located outside the city limits falls under the laws of the local star-system - which happen to include the law that grants full pardon if the acts were committed in the efforts of bringing corruption to light.”

“...that’s the law that was made right after the _war_ , Agent. Donkey’s years’ ago.”

“It is the still the active law, Sergeant.” Kyle replies with as much calmness as he can muster, free hand scrambling at the screen of his communicator. With some effort, he manages to open the fruits of many a night’s labour.

With a sigh that rattles the windows of the room, Sergeant Yates brings up Kenny’s criminal record on his screen. And with a simple flick of his wrist, he wipes it clean.

-

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Kenny’s voice is odd, confusion mixed with disbelief. When Kyle risks a glance his way, he sees the same emotion reflected on the blonde’s face. He had taken his mask off just as they stepped outside the station, allowing Kyle to see every little flicker that was usually hidden from sight. It does little to help his weary heart, already exhausted by the trials of the day.   

“I wanted to.” he replies, voice mostly steady. “I really, really did.”

Above them, the sun blazes high in the sky, rays scorching against his skin. In the distance, they can still hear the uproar of the crowd, now armed with the truth.

There were much, much too many things to process. His communicator flashes every other second with new messages - from his family, from friends who had just seen the broadcast, from the police department and the Sheriff’s office, looking to tie up loose ends and find a purchase to start anew. His limbs feel like they’re sculpted from lead, and all he wants is his fucking bed and twenty-four hours of unconsciousness.   

But is was only one thing he couldn’t postpone.

Taking one last deep breath, Kyle clears his throat to catch Kenny’s attention. “So.” he begins, stomach already tying itself into complicated knots again. “I was. Uh. Thinking. A lot, actually. And I was wondering if - after we’ve slept and - if I could take you out to dinner. Soon.”  

Kenny stumbles to a halt, the soles of his shoes making a painful sound against the concrete. Slowly, he turns to face Kyle, cyan eyes practically burning holes into his skin as the bounty hunter’s fingers move to brush against his own.

“And then maybe afterwards, you could...come over and see how accurate all your predictions about my ugly wallpaper were.”

Slowly, as if cradling something delicate, Kenny’s fingers intertwine with Kyle’s. A gentle tug later, he’s close enough for their foreheads to press against each other, a nervous expression only inches away from a painfully hopeful one.  

“I didn’t have plans to jet off-planet anytime soon.” Kyle finds himself murmuring. His grip tightens. “And now, I don’t plan on leaving for a long time.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.” He tilts his head a fraction, stomach dipping as he feels the other’s breath across his skin. “I have one condition, though.” He waits until Kenny lifts his gaze from their hands before continuing. “You call me ‘Agent Broflovski’ again, I will hide the keys to your hoverbike where the sun don’t fucking shine.”

Kenny blinks. And then laughter bursts out of him, leaving him a shaking, giggling mess, clinging onto Kyle for dear life. He joins in, helpless to the sheer exhilaration, cackles only worsening when Kenny manages to gather his words in-between his chuckles. 

“She has a name, you know.”

He doesn’t know who makes the first move - who reaches for the other first, whose fingers make purchase on soft skin the fastest. When their lips finally connect, all he knows is warmth and bone-deep elation.

“So.” Kenny eventually murmurs against his lips, one kiss having turned into half a dozen. “Are those handcuffs scheduled to make a re-appearance at any time during the evening?”

His eyes glitter with mirth, freckled cheeks flushed red. There is absolutely nothing stopping Kyle from raising a hand to trace along its path, fingers lingering at the cybernetic seam.      

“If you’re on your best behaviour.”

 

\---

 

_Epilogue_

 

The cousins of the Broflovski family started getting married en-masse when Kyle had just turned eleven. This prompted the now infamous summer that was spent flitting from one end of the galaxy to another, from wedding to wedding. It was both an exhilarating and a rather exhausting process for an eleven year old, the taste of wedding cake eventually evoking disgust rather than delight.

The sentiment Kyle remembers the strongest is his confusion and growing exasperation at the amount of tears shed at every single ceremony. No matter the familial circumstances or the music choice, his mother and his aunties had cried every single time. He had even caught the grooms sniffling, wide-eyed and barely keeping their composure.   
It had been a topic of many of his complaints, mostly to the uncaring ears of Ike, who was much more occupied with the floral decorations and its edible parts at the time.

As his ears start ringing with the cheers of his ensemble family and friends, vision blurry and chest a mess of emotions, he realises he owes retroactive apologies to a lot of people.

-

A knife taps against a glass, the high-pitched clinks cutting through the cheerful chatter across the room. As people shuffle in their seats, Kenny rises to his feet.

“Hi everyone!” he says, the greeting practically a song. His face is uncovered, cybernetics on full display in their gleaming glory. As he gestures with his hands, the light reflects off his new ring in a beautiful manner. “First, I’d like to thank y’all for coming - we really appreciate that you could make it.”

With great difficulty, Kyle manages to drag his eyes away from his husband to follow his gaze onto the crowd.   
He sees Kenny’s parents, seated on the right side of his mother, the sight of them still filling him with a sense of victory.    
He sees Karen’s blinding grin, with her bright yellow halo of flowers woven into her hair. Ike in the seat next to her, expression unusually soft, the patterns across his skin crackling bright blue under the venue’s lighting.  

“However, it has come to my attention that some of you don’t know the story of how me and Kyle first met.”

The air in Kyle’s lungs immediately finds its way down the wrong tube. He starts hacking the exact same moment as a cheer rises from Clyde’s table. Next to him, Craig’s camera gleams as the traitor presses the button to record.

“You see, our very first meeting involved a pair of handcuffs and a gun - “

The laughter rises to near-hysterics, and Kyle just cannot bring himself to be annoyed. Even when he drops his head down onto the table, mortified flush burning through his skin, he cannot quite keep the smile off his face.

 

\---

 

AN:

And that's a wrap, my dearest readers!  If you're interested in extra plotpoints and tidbits that didn't make it into the story, [take a look at my epilogue thoughts here](https://lwtis.tumblr.com/post/178522055810/catch-me-if-you-can-epilogue-thoughts).  
And now for some Sappy Author Musings ahead -

This has been the first multi-chapter fic I have managed to finish ever since I’ve been writing fanfiction (like a proper one, three-part-oneshots don’t count) and it's been a fucking ride. I definitely learnt a lot, and I feel like I can approach the next multi-chapter project with a lot more efficiency and confidence.

The first South Park fic I wrote came up to a little over 21k, and took me six months to write.  
Catch Me If You can ended up about 30k and it took me a little over three months - whilst simultaneously participating in the K2 week and writing quite a few gift fics for awesome peeps. As hard as I am on myself regarding writing and rate of updates, I feel that’s something to be proud of. And as someone plagued by so many unfinished projects, it feels really really good having finished one.

A massive, massive thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, subscribed or gave this story their time. I am very grateful, and I really hope you found something to enjoy about this story <3

Extra-special shoutout to [towny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Townycod13/pseuds/Townycod13) who prompted it all with her challenge, and has been the most relentless cheerleader throughout it all. I love you and I don't think you know how much I treasure those drawings and every fantastic comment <3 <3 <3 <3

If you'd like a little moment of sunshine, I'd implore you to listen to dodie's [Would You Be So Kind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lRW1JcSRPgU) and Katherine Ho's [stunning cover of Yellow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6NQZHyJYO8) - two tracks I had on repeat whilst writing.

I have plans for a few little spin-off fics from this universe - mainly a more detailed look at Craig and Tweek's story, as well as how Bebe and Wendy came to run a burlesque club together. I'll be posting snippets and ideas on my [tumblr](https://lwtis.tumblr.com/) \- feel free to hit me up :)


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